


Put me together again

by Esbe, Gem_Gem



Series: Put me Together verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Freeform, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Unrequited Love, all sex acts will not be tagged but acts of violence, non-con etc will be so keep a look out, not UST though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 69,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esbe/pseuds/Esbe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach, John <i>needs</i> to be needed. Mycroft has always <i>wanted</i> him.</p><p> </p><p>Edit 19 Sep 2017: Having read and either appreciated or disdained other people's tagging practices I need to add for future readers of this fic:</p><p>Please be advised that the fic<br/>Contains explicit violence and male homosexual romance as well as intercourse scenes.</p><p>If that is not a complete deterrent then<br/>The chapters do have warnings right at the top so you can skip parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. This fic is another Johncroft albeit in contemporary times. It is definitely BBC Sherlock. Another marked difference is that it does have some smut. All of which is due to the lovely [Gem_Gem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem)!  
> She indeed is a gem of a person and helped me with the first few chapters. If you find yourself going nnnngh any time then do let her know. But thats not all, she was also my sounding board for the overall plot and encouraged me by reading through my very first (very rough) draft as well.  
> While I will continue posting on the Victorian fic as per usual, this will be once a week or maybe once every two weeks. Sorry about that. But once again I do promise that this has been plotted to the end, and hence, will not be abandoned halfway.
> 
> This follows canon only when it suits me. Essentially freeform :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13-09-2016: I picked this up again after the victorian fic but didn't like much of what I had lined up. Plus I had promised myself to complete this before publishing. So I had to do a lot of that plus editing before I could get back to all of you. All of that has added to the delays here. My apologies for that.  
> A fallout of all the delay is that I have ended up editing and changing existing stuff as well. Again that means added burden to my readers. Sorry, but I do believe these were needed. I will change stuff one chapter at a time while finishing up writing this.  
> Hope it all adds up to a much better read for you all.
> 
> Loads of love to all of you.

“I hope he forgives you.”

“I’m doing it for him. Why do I need his forgiveness?”

“You are burdening him with the ultimate sacrifice. Have you thought of the consequences to him?”

“The consequences are that he stays alive.”

“…”

“He has been in a war zone. He has seen his colleagues die before. He was invalided and he moved on. He will cope.”

“I hope you are right, brother dear. But I doubt the war in Afghanistan was  _personal_.”

“And I have no doubt that you are projecting  _your_  feelings, for John, onto my partnership with him.”

*****

The miracle didn’t occur.

The miracle he had hoped for, prayed for, pleaded for never occurred.

Sherlock was still dead and John was still alone.

“Suicide of fake genius,” the headlines screamed. But John refused to budge. The powers that be may have dragged him down from his arrogance that John Watson’s loyalty would be enough for Sherlock Homes, but he still believed in Sherlock Holmes. He may not have been enough, but Sherlock was much much more than John had ever written and believed.

Why had he not been enough? Could he have...? What if...?

Perhaps he should have thrown his heart into the mix too.

Well it was there. Sort of. But he had never declared it, had he. Had never told his best friend that John was willing to give him everything, body and soul.

Maybe if he had...

The ifs kept multiplying.

But the miracle still eluded him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a prelude. The true story begins next


	2. Made to Measure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It still hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 03/03/2017: I'm changing the style for the chapter title to appear right on top with the chapter number itself.

The first time Mycroft lay with John in his arms his lingering thought was, ' **made to measure** '.

There was no denying that he had admired the man from a distance. Nothing so crude and immature as  _pining_  mind you, it was admiration and respect that he felt for John Watson. Yes that's what it was. But of course, he did notice that the doctor was attractive - in a very _soldierly_ manner. But he never dwelled on that. Never in company, but at home, in his bed, once or twice – perhaps a bit more frequent than that – but then he is skilled at noticing and observing too. It's simply habit.

But never had he thought that they would ever spend a night together, in John's bed, and that when they did- they would fit together like this. Their breaths in tandem, their bodies slotting into each other, smoothly, perfectly. **Yes** , he thought again, emphatically, they were made to measure.

His eyes refused to close at the simple wonder of it all.

Did John feel it too? Did he see their fit as unique? Or was it a very John Watsonish thing to simply fit perfectly?

No Mycroft will not think that. He does not want to. He refuses to think so. This is _them_. Just the two of them. They fit together because they are made to measure. Yes. That's it. He will never ever question that. Just like he will never question the path they took to get here. Together.

He had never approached John while Sherlock was 'living'. He would never have. But 'after' everything he couldn't stop himself. He had sensed John's desolation and feared for his emotional and physical wellbeing. He had warned Sherlock. But when did his brother ever think of the consequences.

Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered how Sherlock could have left John behind. He knew that Sherlock cared for John, far more than anyone in his life. He was sure it hurt his brother to be alone now. John Watson was a wonderful habit and the Holmes had always been prone to addiction. Yet, Sherlock had insisted on fighting his battles away from home and _away from John_.

But, unlike his brother, Mycroft couldn't ignore the resultant upheavals especially when it came to John. It had been simply a friendship at first. No more.

Mycroft sighed. He wasn't sure when the rest had happened. When had he started needing someone so badly?

Perhaps right from the beginning. Mycroft had felt a pang of envy at John's loyalty to his brother.

Both brothers had never indulged in feelings and here was this man, a stranger, wearing his heart on his sleeve. Facing death and killing with equal ease. All for the sake of one man. The man his heart had zeroed in on. He was in awe of John's courage even while berating the foolishness aloud.

What would it be like, he wondered, to be the recipient of such love?

And yes it was _love_. Even though Sherlock failed to recognise it. Even though John vehemently denied it. John Watson's heart belonged to Sherlock Holmes, even as Sherlock's brother yearned for that very heart.

But then Moriarty hadn't left them too many options (yes Mycroft had been at fault) and Sherlock wouldn't budge from the solution he chose.

John's heart had been cruelly sacrificed. And he, Mycroft Holmes, had been instrumental in bludgeoning it.

Mycroft knew he was equally guilty. So, when the chance came to right it somewhat, he had grasped it. He had fought for the right to have John by his side by inviting John to work with his people- as they cleared Sherlock's name. And John battled through it all in his own way, pulling out his old case notes, sifting through mountains of official documents, police records, reminding Molly or Lestrade of specifics or generalities, whatever he could do, wherever he could help. It gave John a purpose. A direction. John felt needed again, it eased his 'guilt'.

And it gave Mycroft an excuse to seek John out and hold on.

Mycroft breathed in his doctor's scent again. The smell filling his senses and warming him. _To have and to hold_ \- what those simple words could mean.

Today John had been ecstatic. Jubilant. **DI Lestrade had been reinstated**.

His service record was once again clear and an official apology had been made. A rather wish-washy one. But still. All because of what John perceived as _their_ joint efforts. It had taken nearly six months. The wheels of bureaucracy even in this day and age ground slowly. Plus it gave him the cover to help Sherlock without alerting his enemies. Officially he had distanced himself from the investigation. But unofficially he had put all his weight behind it. These were but the very first fruits of their labour.

And so, in a very long time — five months and seventeen days to be exact— John had laughed.

He had laughed as Gregory Lestrade wryly read out that excuse of an apology.

And then he had immediately withdrawn.

John had left the Yard and returned to Baker St.

Anthea had alerted him but Mycroft had been seeing it all on a hidden camera in the DI's room and was already on his way out. As a result, he had reached the flat just a few seconds behind. John had never questioned why Mycroft chose to keep Sherlock’s key to 221 but did not have his mobile.

As he entered, John turned to face him, defeated. Mycroft saw it in the slump of his shoulders and the draw of the mouth. For the first time John gave voice to his pain.

“Its so useless, Mycroft. I’m so useless. So bloody useless" he'd said, his voice broken. “I can’t get him back, can I? Nothing can. I failed him because I wasn’t enough. I was never fucking enough.”

Mycroft understood what it meant to be not enough. No matter how much Mycroft tried to fill the void, there would always be a Sherlock shaped hole in John’s life. But Mycroft hoped that he could offer comfort. He had never tried to before, but for the first time he wanted to try. He wanted and so he stepped near and drew John close. John immediately clutched his jacket. And it seemed that once he started to speak John couldn’t stop.

“It hurts Mycroft. So much. How do you cope? Teach me how to shut it too. How do I stop hurting? You spent your life protecting him. Do you feel like a failure too? Why the hell wasn’t I enough Mycroft?  _Why_?”

Mycroft knew the simple answer was that he knew that Sherlock was alive. Even though it hurt to know that he had knowingly thrust his brother into that hell. But he couldn’t say that, so instead he decided to tell John that he was more than enough. For Mycroft.

So Mycroft did the only thing that he could.

Mycroft raised his hands to John’s face and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so this one gets into the slash right away. There is a plot and perhaps a bit of a case (just a bit mind you cos PWP is beyond me and fluff and feels need some basis) but mostly its going to be more slash than anything else.  
> I'm also trying to title chapters since I am so rubbish at titles. Perhaps the exercise will sharpen my skills somewhat but I don't have much hope :D. But I am even worse at summaries and tagging so one thing at a time!
> 
> 13-09-2016: This chapter is edited to according to my newly self-imposed guidelines ;-). But thats all.  
> Next week I'll do some more and so forth till we start adding chapters. Thanks again everyone.


	3. Don't stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time. Or what happened that night.
> 
> 15-09-2016: Given a bit of editing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 03/03/2017 added some more notes

_Firm, unhurried, close mouthed, comforting._ John clung on as if drowning. Mycroft cradled his head and held him close. Slowly John seemed to pull back. Mycroft wasn’t ready to let go yet. But he paused, and waited, lips touching, pulse high, panting softly. And when John sank back with a sigh Mycroft was ready to hold him. He poured his heart out. All his hurt, his longing, his pain were translated into this one kiss. Did John even notice it? Did he want it? Could he have this one moment of sheer perfection? He was so immersed in the feeling of those lips against his, having this fragment of his dreams translated to reality, so lost was he in their clinging warmth, that it took him a very long time to notice that he was no longer in charge of it. At some point, John had taken over.

Taken over and, yes there was no other word to express what he was doing, John Watson was _devouring_ his mouth. The realisation hit Mycroft in the gut and he gave in, sliding his hands to John’s back, pushing himself closer. He stifled a sob that threatened to escape and lost himself in the taste of John’s mouth, the weight of him in his arms, the feel of his body under his hands. And the acute sensation of having it all reciprocated.

John could not stop himself from taking the kiss deeper. He was starving, for comfort, for a touch, to feel, for someone to give a damn. The kiss promised him at least three of those and he couldn't let go. If the last few months with Mycroft had told him anything it was that this man was **not ice**. He cared. He gave. He felt. Keenly. And John was desperate for someone, anyone to feel _with_ him. He wanted, more than anything else, for _this_ man to feel.

His hands were no longer clinging they were holding Mycroft. He slid the left one up behind Mycroft’s head to direct his mouth better. Then he slipped the other one underneath his jacket sliding it off the shoulders. Soon, it was Mycroft clinging to him, trying his best not to break the kiss. John did not let go of his mouth even for a second. He plunged again and again in that heat. And oh God was it sweet. As Mycroft shrugged off his jacket, John grabbed his arse and hauled him closer. Bloody hell, Mycroft was so hard! All that male sophistication turned on by a simple crude ex-soldier? Capt. John Watson was now on a mission.

In that one moment of feeling Mycroft's arousal, his goal for the 'encounter' changed. This was no longer about sharing comfort; it was not simply about feeling and having Mycroft feel; it was about how far the ordinary John Watson could take the anything but ordinary Mycroft Holmes **and how long he could keep him there.**

He dragged his open mouth across Mycroft’s cheek to his temple, blowing warmth, as his hand slowly tilted Mycroft's head back. John dragged his teeth down to Mycroft's jaw, clamping down to bite playfully at the edge. He felt Mycroft’s gasp against his own chin. Mycroft swallowed and brought John's attention to his throat. The pale column of his throat seemed to be begging for John’s attention so John laved it rough and hard. As Mycroft gasped in response, John latched on to the pulse and sucked the soft vulnerable skin into his mouth, hoping it would bruise.

“Mnnng”, Mycroft bit down on his lip to stop further sound escaping. His eyes were scrunched tight, he hung on to John fearing his legs would give in, and he definitely couldn’t breathe. But John was relentless; he seemed to demand those sounds. Mycroft felt John move his hand from Mycroft's bottom and very deliberately palm Mycroft’s crotch. He wouldn't last at this rate. His senses couldn't keep up. Mycroft muffled a whimper and willed his knees to hold. John tongued the reddened spot on his throat as he slid his hand up and down his hard length, then he cupped his balls and fondled them softly before finally slipping his hand all the way between Mycroft's legs till his fingertips touched the cleft of his arse through the soft wool and cotton and the cushion of his palm pushed against the perineum. He circled his palm, firmly, massaging, forcing Mycroft to spread his legs even as he thrust back for more. 

Mycroft groaned aloud in anguished protest. Finally!

The clothes he wore were no longer his armour but a part of the torture, so Mycroft let go of John and tore at his tie, waistcoat buttons and then his shirt. Hands tangling in his cuffs till John mercifully brought down his left hand and undid just the one cufflink before resuming his sweet torment. Mycroft tore them all off and sank into John for another kiss. He no longer knew what this was. But it was John asking and Mycroft would give it to him no matter the cost. He wanted this to last. He wanted it hard and fast. He couldn't decide. He wanted this for keeps, wanted to hold on but he would not ask. He wanted to... He **wanted**.

“Your bed. _Please_. John.” The breathless request finally reached John’s consciousness and he pulled back. Without a word or a glance, he held Mycroft’s hand and led him up to his room. He carefully closed the door behind them. John started stripping, pointedly looking at Mycroft to do the same.  

Having a headstart, Mycroft was fully naked by the time John was only half done. He bent down to remove John’s socks and John shuddered at the sight of this powerful man at his feet. The smooth inviting expanse of the bent back was mesmerising. Mycroft seemed to read his thoughts as he looked up to meet his eyes. That heated look spurred John on and he shoved off his pants and trousers in one go, hauling Mycroft onto the bed and pinning him there with his whole body. Mycroft parted his legs and wrapped them around John’s, inviting him. John burst into a frenzy of seeking, laving, biting, sucking, bruising, licking everything he could reach, his hands grasped flesh, rubbing it, kneading it, scratching it. His mouth found a nipple and he tongued it hard, opening his mouth wide to pull it in entirely, suckling. Hurting and soothing in turns. One arm holding him up, the other hand clawing down Mycroft's side.

He was greedy for a response, any response from Mycroft. Something to tell him that he needed this as much as John did. And he got it in the form of low moans and grunts that escaped despite Mycroft’s best efforts to contain them. He got them in the reddening bruises that bloomed on the body writhing under him, struggling to pull him closer. He got his desired response in the helpless, almost reflexive, thrusts of Mycroft’s pelvis.

Mycroft was drowning. The assault on his senses was driving him to the brink. Yes, he had had far more skilled partners before, but nothing had flooded his entire being the way John’s touch did. It was just sex for John but it was Mycroft’s heart on line. He was torn between the instinctual habit to clamp down his defences and wrest back control or at least balance it and the very visceral need to give in and give over to John. His heart cried, his body ached and Mycroft could no longer stop himself. He gave in.

John sensed the shift in Mycroft’s body. The surrender to this... whatever this was.

He lifted himself a bit and took Mycroft’s cock in his hand, pumping at first gently. The response was instant. Mycroft accelerated his thrusts, head flailing from side to side, mouth pouring out a litany of meaningless and somewhat muffled words - 'yes, yes, yes' and ‘god, god, god’, hands and heels scrabbling for purchase on John’s sweaty back and butt. As the tension built, Mycroft arched higher into John touch, and so John rubbed his palm on the head to gather some moisture then he slid his hand down and stroked him firmly, not too fast but not slow either, steady, he kept up the constant pressure and the rhythm, taking time to rub the head to keep his hand lubricated. Mycroft seemed to go berserk and then finally, as the tendons on his neck seemed ready to snap a plea burst out from him, “John!”

Immediately, John dropped to his chest and aligned their cocks together. He snatched Mycroft’s hand and wrapped it around them, then held his face in both his hands and captured his mouth again, firmly thrusting his tongue in, even as they both thrust into Mycroft’s hand. Within moments Mycroft shouted out and arched into his orgasm and John followed soon. As he collapsed on the body underneath, John was very sure that the shudders he felt were not Mycroft’s. Afraid of showing even this momentary weakness he forced himself to roll off and lay on his back panting.

It was a long time before he could pull himself up to pick the box of tissues by his bedside. Mycroft lay exactly where John had left him. On his back, his eyes closed, a mess of seminal fluids on his stomach and chest, hands resting on the sides. With a doctor’s care, John carefully wiped Mycroft and himself. He simply threw the used tissues on the floor. That soft sound seemed to rouse Mycroft. He turned and lifted himself on one elbow to look out of the window. It had grown dark outside. He hadn’t even looked at John so far but John sensed a question in his stance. In answer, John climbed back into the bed, he pulled the bedcovers and tucked them both inside. Finally, he settled again on his back, closed his eyes and slept.

Mycroft listened to John’s quiet steady breathing. He hadn’t dared to open his eyes at first, and then he hadn’t dared to look at John. He was sure his emotions were writ large there. He felt too exposed as it is. The response John had asked for had been easy to give in the heat of the moment, but was hard to acknowledge in its aftermath. He had hoped for this for so long. No, not hoped, rather wished for this and needed this but all without hope. All this time all he had wished for was one chance to be with John, one chance to touch him, one chance to unabashedly look at him, one chance to tell John how he felt. And now all he could do was to wonder if he should have taken it.

*****

Mycroft drifted in and out of a somewhat uneasy slumber. Struggling to prolong his night with John and wondering why he couldn’t have this one thing that he wanted so much.

John slept deeply and seemingly peacefully, but as the night progressed, he stirred in sleep, slowly but surely shifting closer to Mycroft, seeking him in his sleep. Until he lay on his side with an arm around Mycroft’s waist. When dawn broke and Mycroft woke up once again with a start, John’s head rested on his arm. And his first thought as he looked on at that head of golden hair sprinkled now a bit more with grey than when they had first 'met', was that John Watson and Mycroft Holmes were _made to measure_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So whaddyall think?  
> The smut was polished and refined by Gem_gem who is the mistress of smutty feels.
> 
> Do drop a note to let us know what worked for you and what did not. Is there more of something you'd like?  
> Gem says that feedback fuels her so if its more you want my lovely people you know what and who to say it to.
> 
> Like I said this one's plotted and done. But since I've committed to the Victorian fic I'm going to be a bit erratic in the posting of this one. (Without a beta, editing aka rereading to check for typos and grammaticals takes a bit of time, apologies)
> 
> ___________________
> 
> 03/03/2017: As we went ahead with the story I wondered if I was clearly putting in the story what I had plotted.
> 
> For instance I see my own notes explaining to Gem what I was going for here and they read as per below. It would be wonderful if you would let me know if I got it right please. (Looking back I'm even more impressed than before that Gem got what I was aiming for- this reads awful)
> 
>  
> 
> _Ok so this is where I falter. I've tried it twice now and it just doesn’t work. Basically, MH kisses John only for comfort but it "gets out of hand". Then John takes over the kiss and then they end up in bed. Referring to my older notes this is what I outlined and I think it stays. So I'm copying it here for reference._  
>  The act of having someone in bed/having a physical connect triggers something in John and he becomes an aggressive partner in bed. Not hurting Mycroft (no dub-orion-con please) but taking the lead and assaulting and overwhelming his senses almost as if he needs to know he can make this man respond to plain simple normal John Watson.  
> Mycroft on his part is very experienced (I never could digest a virgin or less experienced Mycroft. I kinda see him as a James Bond who now does a "desk" job).  
> Mycroft senses the need in John and allows him to take the lead once they are in bed. However, even to himself he doesn't acknowledge that yes, he was overwhelmed (and perhaps hooked). Mycroft then sleeps over, but ends up leaving very early in the morning without waking up John due to a work related emergency. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Now, keep in mind that the after part of the sex is in the previous chapter. I basically see that they have sex, seeing Mycroft lose his mask in his bed, John finally settles down enough to sleep, Mycroft cant cos he isn’t sure this will ever happen again. So he is up ruminating and doing the whole Made to measure thingie in prev chapter._
> 
>  
> 
> If you did read through this nonsense then you are simply awesome!
> 
> Thanks


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a mess. But so is Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited on 15-09-2016.  
> In case of lingering errors or freshly introduced ones please do let me know. I keep finding them all the time and yet...

Mycroft was not with him when John woke up. Somehow he knew that Mycroft was not anywhere in the flat. Much as he wished, his soldier’s training did not allow him to linger in bed. So he pulled himself up and went to the bathroom. It was only as he finished rinsing his mouth that he noticed the dirty laundry hamper. His clothes from yesterday were lying tidily on top of the pile. He hastened out and frantically looked around for other signs and yes, Mycroft had tidied up. His shoes, were aligned neatly near the door, his socks were definitely not on his bedroom floor. The tissues had been binned. So Mycroft hadn’t been in a hurry to get out. That was a relief. Right?

He did not know what to make of it. As he filled the kettle and popped in some toast his mind went over the previous evening and he groaned mentally. ‘ _What the fuck have I done? I not only kissed Mycroft Holmes... no actually he kissed me first... yeah may be, but what the hell, once he kissed me I damn well nearly molested the man! Damn damn damn damn bloody fucking buggering damn.’_

What the hell had he been thinking? He had not only lost his senses and crossed all fucking limits, but he had done all of it with the most powerful man in the country. And more importantly he had perhaps lost the regard of someone he had started to see as a friend.

John agonised over it the whole morning. ' _Well done Watson! No wonder he left without waking you up. What man would want to still be around after that? Maybe he left during the night itself? No. Mycroft did ask to stay. Didn’t he? Wasn’t that what he seemed to…? Fuck!’_ His perception of the evening was so screwed up that perhaps it would be better if he didn’t rely on it. _‘But yes Mycroft did stay and I can’t be sure but I remember feeling him next to me all night long… I think.’_

 _'Of all the stupid things to do!'_ This had got to be the worst. How would he face the man again? ' _Will I even get a chance?'_ What if he avoided John now? How does one apologise for such a colossal fuck up?

The thoughts went on and on, the same ones circling viciously, occurring to him repeatedly, driving him mad. He washed his breakfast dish and mug and and proceeded to bathe and shave. It was only as he dressed himself that he realised that he needed to change the sheets on his bed. It then occurred to him that he distinctly remembered Mycroft’s orgasm. Which then led his thoughts to those sounds he had managed to elicit from the ‘ice man’. Even now those were enough to drive a delicious shiver up his spine. He knew he had wanted to  _force_  Mycroft to feel, to surrender to pleasure. But what were the chances that a man of Mycroft’s stature, immersed in power and privilege as he was, would allow himself to be coerced? Was there perhaps a miniscule chance that the man had actually felt pleasured and not coerced? As soon as that thought hit him John laughed at himself.

 _Yeah, right_ , as if a man of Mycroft’s sophistication would ever enjoy his version of sex, especially when even John wasn’t impressed by what he had done last night. _‘Sherlock is right. I am an idiot.’_ He stopped mid-thought at that and realised that he hadn’t thought of Sherlock for the last twelve hours. Not once after he had… Oh God! The thought flayed him and he sagged on to his bed half dressed.

*****

Mycroft had had a rather hectic day. Which wasn’t unusual and he was used to surviving on minimal sleep, far better than even Sherlock, but what made it difficult today to wade through his daily duties was that try as he did he couldn’t totally relegate thoughts of John to the background. He recalled John’s face in repose as he had removed himself from John’s sleepy embrace. Ignoring the tug at his heart and his body. The events of the previous evening seemed to be running in a loop within his mind.

He had meant only to comfort when he had kissed John. His job required diplomacy and usually platitudes came naturally to him. But the raw pain in John’s eyes had torn at him, his guilt at his own part in causing the pain eating him away. Even as he berated himself for the slip in his control, he knew that given the chance to undo and choose a different option he would do exactly what he had done last night and kiss John. He had no regrets on that front. But it was the rest that he wished he could…

What did he want really? Surely he didn’t want to erase the one and only time he could have with John? His heart would fight any attempt of his mind to do so.

At odd moments through the day his mind would seize with an unnamed fear. Deep insid, he knew that his final surrender to John’s body scared him. He had never done that before. Never allowed someone else to control his pleasure. He never allowed anyone to determine the extent and depth of what he would take from any encounter. And he had tried. God knew he had tried to hold back a small piece of control, but John had brooked no resistance. John had insisted that Mycroft take his pleasure from John’s body. As an expert negotiator and tactician Mycroft knew that it was John’s insistence regarding this that had won. He had indeed made Mycroft _feel_. And now Mycroft’s heart and body yearned together for another night with John. He knew he shouldn’t. It would destroy what little resistance he had to the doctor-soldier. Idly, Mycroft wondered if the price of one’s heart’s desire was always too high.

It was nearing seven when ' _A'_ entered his room. No one but he knew her true name and John still referred to her as _Anthea_. Mycroft simply called her 'A' in private and now he even thought of her as such. It was simply a matter of her choosing names beginning with 'A' for herself for any and every mission (yes they had both cut their teeth in the field). She cheekily explained it away saying she was the best, _the ace_ , so it figured. And even though his office was scanned for bugs twice a day and was sound proofed he preferred not to utter her name and put her safety at risk. So he always called her 'A' in private.

“You need to get some sleep.”

Mycroft frowned curiously at the unsolicited advice. As his PA, bodyguard and friend, 'A' was wont to push him whenever she felt it was needed. But she usually restricted herself to doing so only under extreme circumstances. Unlike his brother he had never felt the need to prove anything by over-extending his body. Given all that, her comment was a bit strange.

“And if possible,” she blithely continued, “you should get some sleep with our good doctor.”

His smile was just on this side of sad and bitter, but he managed to pull up one eyebrow exaggeratedly. She held up her hand to prevent his response. “Whatever has happened you need to face him again and soon. The sooner the better.” Then she added softly, “He may say no, but you wont know till you ask and surely you’ve already made some headway yesterday. Look, you told me once to stop dithering and wallowing in self-pity. Remember?”

“Oh yes I do, I recall copious amounts of vodka as well. Grey Goose - Magnum was it? Mixed with equal amounts of piteously wailed drunken phrases such as – _But he could have anyone! Why would he want me? I’m hardly relationship materi_ \--/p>

“Yes, yes. Stop riling me. Your diversionary tactics are not working.”

“They never do.” He said with an exaggerated and playful sigh.

“Mycroft!” 'A' groaned in exasperation, bringing a smile to his face, even as she flung out her arms and waved them furiously, “Would you just go and shag your doctor please. I’ve had enough of your moping around. I know what you are thinking and the answer to it is _you don’t know that_. Sherlock doesn’t love him in return so you are _not_ betraying your brother. After yesterday there is every possibility that John might be ready to move on. You never gave John a chance to know you earlier so how could he?”

“If John could see you like this, he would stop trying to date you.” Mycroft teased.

A’s only response was to fold her arms and glare. Mycroft smiled in defeat and picked up his briefcase and umbrella.

“Thank you 'A', but indeed I do already know the answer my dear.”

Of course he did. Sherlock might be a brat but he was far more attractive and passionate. Mycroft knew that even with his superior intellect, tact and suave manners, when he had formed his plans for the future and embarked on his career, he had had to start from the lowest rung. Sherlock on the other hand could easily have had the world at his feet if he had cared to, simply because of how he looked and how easily he communicated his passion.

Mycroft had adored him growing up. He had been proud of his baby brother. Almost as smart as Mycroft and such a beautiful child. And could he throw a tantrum! Where Mycroft was controlled and self-contained, Sherlock had laughed and screamed and babbled and hugged and kissed, all with equal fervour. Their nurse and au pair had been charmed and exasperated in equal measures.

But they had loved him. Everyone had loved him.

And forget about passion or adoration or-- (no he wouldn't say the word)-- yup forget about all that, he couldn't even hope for simple attraction from John. John hadn't been selfish in bed. He had been rather giving. But Mycroft suspected that it wouldn't have mattered who was in bed last night with John. Mycroft could as well be a faceless fuck.

For John hadn’t even said his name. Not even once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for keeping you all waiting for so long. But I hope the drama will keep you all happy :D
> 
> So this chapter is only me. Gem may make an appearance in the next chapter ;-) Nope not saying cos suspense is good for the soul.  
> The idiots are at it again though.  
> Yup Anthea will be part of this. In a big way (recurring patterns in my fics). And yup I see her being Mycroft's friend.  
> __________  
> Regarding the name A: This name isn’t concretised yet. Suggestions are welcome from all. I had inserted a not fully western name but didn’t want to confuse the readers. So A it is... 
> 
> __________  
> Regarding Mycroft's thoughts on Sherlock vs him: In my head canon, Mycroft has always recognised his own Holmesian nature from a very young age. He did nothing downright illegal or truly harmful like Sherlock but he has always been tempted to do things that were [ illicit and addictive](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5417294). But he has always been a bit of a control freak and needed the approval of others, so he bottled his passions and drew the icy mask. So much so that it has become a part of his subconscious and now he can almost never show passion. And for that he is just a tad bit envious of Sherlock.  
> __________  
> Note on Mycroft's sexual experience: Gem and I have gone through debating this so perhaps some of you may be of another opinion as well. I do plan to stubbornly stick to my head canon on this point- Mycroft Holmes is NOT sexually inexperienced. In fact he is quite experienced. I never could digest a virgin or less experienced Mycroft. I like him worldly wise. But, according to me he has always wielded his skills in bed as a weapon, to gain information or as power play, he uses them to negotiate, to seduce, to blackmail, to dominate. Which is why this whole thing with John has him off-kilter.


	5. Because I need this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which way will Mycroft decide? Will John agree?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd Gem is back! Feedback, kudos and comments shall fuel the lady and me as well. So do drop in a note.
> 
> There will once again be a short hiatus after this while the two of us tug the words between us and draw out a few more chapters.
> 
> 15-09-2016: The chapter has been polished a tad bit more.  
> Shall start releasing the new chapters soon.  
> Thanks for all your patience.

Sitting in the car, Mycroft mulled over A’s words. Was there really a chance for him and John? Could he have anything beyond a night? For how long? Another night? A week? A month? He knew the answer was either - no more or till Sherlock returned. All signs pointed to last night having been an aberration for John.The preceding events would never repeat themselves and hence neither would there fallout. But there was a corner of his heart that hoped. What if he could tempt John again. He almost laughed. 'Tempt John' indeed. The man hadn't even acknowledged that it was Mycroft in his bed last night. But... But if one could, hypothetically speaking of course, have this for a while longer. How long would it be?The John Watson's of this world did not use and throw away people. No, John Watson stood for loyalty. He would perhaps continue till Mycroft broke things off. Or up till Sherlock returned.

Hope and pragmatism weren’t the only things battling within. He was also afraid of losing his, hard fought for, control to someone else. If anything, last night had demonstrated it unarguably - letting John in would leave him vulnerable. He hadn’t felt so raw and exposed in a very long time. Admittedly he hadn't felt so needed either. But he no longer held out any false hope of being enough for John beyond that. So the only question worth answering now was— _Will this be enough for me?_

He could be objective enough to be assured that their encounter had satisfied John at least in some aspects. He was equally certain that a repeat of it would not harm John and in fact may offer a degree of comfort and fulfil a basic physical need. But he also knew that while John’s anger at him had been dulled, it hadn’t been forgotten. John blamed him for Sherlock’s debacle and ‘suicide’. Had some part of John been punishing him yesterday? Not through pain but by making him feel out of control?

And that is what was almost compelling him to answer the question with a _yes_. This would be enough. It would be a recompense to John and a short-lived, guilty pleasure to him.

But, should he choose this, then he was equally sure that he could not afford a repeat of yesterday. Sherlock was in danger and now more than ever Mycroft couldn’t lose his objectivity and control. To lose his edge now could prove fatal for Sherlock’s mission. And so he made his decision. He would give his all in bed; his body was John’s to take comfort or revenge and hopefully pleasure. But Mycroft would decide to what extent their encounters would bring him pleasure. He would ensure that his heart and emotions were off limits.

*****

John had spent the day thinking of Mycroft far more than of Sherlock.

Guilt churned in him repeatedly at the thought of how he had treated Mycroft last night. He was still angry at Mycroft and there were times when the memory of that betrayal almost paralysed him. But the pain that Mycroft fought to hide from others, the sense of loss that John could empathise with, couldn’t be ignored. It made John feel guilty that he judged Mycroft so harshly when he himself had not done enough for Sherlock.

Was he to always feel guilty? Guilt and inadequacy seemed his constant companions where the Holmeses were concerned. First, it had been Sherlock. Even now the constant tape unspooled easily— _If I hadn’t called him a machine. If I had told him I believed in him and trusted him and… loved him_?

But was it love when he had so easily betrayed Sherlock’s memory by sleeping with his own brother? And how? Would Mycroft ever forgive him? He had **used** the man. They had become friends in the last few months and John had simply grabbed, snatched, seized and plundered. Never had he let himself go like that, not even after the post-raids and missions sex in Afghanistan. Could he sink any lower? His thoughts were in an infinite and vicious spiral that plunged him deeper into guilt.

*****

That evening Mycroft returned. He simply unlocked the door to 221b and let himself in. John had long returned from the clinic and was sitting in front of the TV, staring blankly. He stood up and turned to the door as it opened. Mycroft entered and placed a large paper bag and his umbrella on the floor.

"Good evening, John." Mycroft said pulling away his overcoat and hanging it beside the door. He then pulled away his suit jacket, picked the bag again and walked to the table. Without a word, he hung his jacket on the back of one of the chairs. He loosened his tie and pulled it off, placing that on his jacket as well. Next, he undid two of his shirt buttons, then his cufflinks, carefully putting them in his jacket pocket. He rolled his shirtsleeves and proceeded to remove dinner from the bag. He rummaged through the kitchen cabinets for the plates, napkins and the cutlery and served two plates. Mycroft sat down and looked up at John, silently inviting him. John was so baffled that he walked to the table and sat down at one of the places almost robotically. Mycroft gestured and then he started to eat. If asked John would have been unable to recall a single thing they ate. None of it registered. He simply ate.

John knew he should speak up and apologise but he couldn’t. It just wouldn’t happen. He did recall later  that at the end of the dinner he got up and cleared the table, put away the left overs. He remembered clearly that, as he was about to start on the dishes, Mycroft came in and stopped him. He carefully washed and wiped John's hands like a toddler's. Mycroft tugged him up to his bedroom and started efficiently but unhurriedly undressing him. Halfway, he took John's hands and placed them on the front of his own waistcoat. Again John thought that he should say something. But the words wouldn’t come. So John undid Mycroft’s buttons as directed, and then the shirt, it was good to have something to do. It was good to have someone give him something to do. And oh Lord, did this mean that Mycroft could forgive him? Had forgiven him? Would he extract a price for his forgiveness? Why was Mycroft doing this at all? Was it their shared grief? It couldn't be simply convenience. It definitely couldn't be attraction. So why? As they undressed each other by turns, John kept glancing at Mycroft’s face searching for clues.

Mycroft realised that John had barely said a word. He seemed to be working things out within. Ah well. He would simply proceed as he had decided. Without a word they lay down on the bed. Facing each other, on their sides. Mycroft raised his hand to trace John’s cheek.

John wasn’t sure what was happening. Was it this easy? Could it be so simple to just reach out and take what he needed? Slowly, John raised his hand and touched Mycroft's hip. Mycroft leaned in for a kiss. John’s eyes closed even before their lips met, and a thankful sigh escaped his mouth.

Mycroft felt the sigh against his mouth and felt all his resolutions threatening to dissolve against the sweet possibilities of John’s mouth. He struggled for control. He had promised himself that he would take what he found and give John whatever he asked for. No more no less. No dreaming about needing more, no wanting long term. No baring his soul and begging for forgiveness. He would have this for as long as John allowed (till Sherlock returned?). And so he would not hesitate, he would not dither. If John wanted mind-numbing sex then he would give it to him. He knew he was good at it. He ruthlessly repressed the part that urged him do more than his best to make John wish for more. Wish to be with him for longer- one more night, a further day. That way lay madness and despair.

The feel of Mycroft’s body against his was a mixture of easy acceptance and forgiveness, of craving and demanding in equal measure. John was still dazed that Mycroft would put aside John's previous selfishness so easily. Could it be this simple? But he was not allowed to linger on these thoughts as Mycroft’s body beckoned. Inviting and appealing. Its allure was embedded in the man sharing his bed. Even stripped of his clothes and allowing John any and every liberty, Mycroft Homes was formidable and off the scale charismatic. And it seemed that he wasn’t going to let John forget it easily.

Mycroft trailed kisses over John’s chin, across his jaw and even over the warm skin of his lobe, breathing very gently up the flushing, delicate and detailed curve of his ear and nosing at John’s hairline. Mycroft’s hands, when he moved them, were sure and steady and grounding, and they brushed and stroked up both of John’s arms and whispered along the column of his neck, the tips of his fingers soft and the line of his fingernails smooth and even. The manicured hands spoke of Mycroft privileged lifestyle, but the small and surprising calluses found in the creases of his knuckles, showed that the life did not come without work. Each and every touch was precise and exact, and when John lifted his own hands to caress Mycroft in return, Mycroft kissed him, feather light and teasing, before he moved to brush his lips and sighing breath down John’s chest, over his puckering nipples, and down the length of his tensing stomach.

John exhaled shakily and watched his descent, a conflicting expression on his face, but Mycroft swept both of his hands up the sides of John, took John’s hands and fitted them to the freckled expanse of his nape and shoulders. When he took John’s hardening erection into his mouth, he could barely contain a moan of pleasure at the taste, and glanced up through his lashes at John arching neck as he sucked the thickening, hot flesh against his tongue. The flavour of John was thick and pleasantly musky, the throb of his veins tantalising where Mycroft lapped at him with a growing vigour, and he tried not to catalogue the taste, to remember later, and instead tried to focus on the movement of his mouth, tongue and hands. John’s thighs were tensing in tandem with his smoothing and eager and grateful hands, jumping with corded muscle under the light scraping of Mycroft nails. John's fingers were digging involuntarily into his flesh.

John tugged at Mycroft after a while. Mycroft let John slip gently from his mouth when he was fully engorged and crawled up to rub their slick, red and aching cocks together, and allowed John to roll them until John was leaning over Mycroft with a fluttering of tendons and rosy skin up the pleasing lines of his arms and neck. They kissed again, slick and passionate and fervent, and Mycroft opened his mouth wider at John’s insistence, letting him sample the mixed hint of them on Mycroft’s tongue. John moaned and caressed every inch of Mycroft he could, rolling his hips to trail the glistening and wet tip of his penis up the shape of Mycroft’s pelvis, marking a haphazard path over his skin until he pulled Mycroft up and tipped them both onto their sides, facing one another and kissing again.

Brown, rough hands cupped the freckled pale skin of Mycroft’s arse, kneading the flesh there, only to sweep up the dip of Mycroft’s arching spine to cup the back of his neck. They moved together slowly, working up a rhythm between them, savouring each touch and the response it elicited, both of them equally touching and stroking and fondling each other’s bodies with growing need. Soon their need reached fever pitch. Mycroft reached to entwine his hand with John’s and wrapped both their fingers around the straining shape of their, bumping and rubbing cocks, swallowing John’s breathless moan and replacing it with one of his own as they stroked together. At first their fingers clumsily locked and shifted together, and Mycroft glanced down between their bodies to try and organise the hold; however John pulled his hand away, tracked sucking kisses up Mycroft’s throat, and grabbed Mycroft by the hips to rut against him with strong, skilful and impassioned thrusts, squashing and grinding the slicked, rigid skin of their cocks together. Mycroft reciprocated in kind, rotating his hips just so every now and then. John hissed through his teeth in ecstasy.

Rolling back over, John pulled Mycroft on top and parted his legs, pulling Mycroft against him and rocking them together for a minute of slicked sounds and thick, hitching breaths, before he reached down and stroked Mycroft, motioning for Mycroft to take him in hand in return, and groaning with a long, drawn-out breath when Mycroft did so. They shifted and rutted into each other’s hands, kissing and breathing against one another, the smell of their musk and pre-ejaculate making Mycroft dizzy with want. But he would not give in today. He couldn't. Please, let John find his pleasure first, Please!

They kissed, hard and long and passionate, one last time, and then parted with a shaking line of saliva between them as they got closer and closer to climax.

John came first, and he did so with a sharp and sudden gasp, whining low in his throat, pulsing thick and fast over Mycroft’s working fingers, and splattering up his chest, catching the underside of his chin.

Mycroft followed him soon after with a strangled grunt and a long, deep groan of satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Gem told me: "I apologise for the long wait. I was struggling really badly with writer’s block for this. I just could not get anything down.... I am currently up at 12:25am without having slept at all the last night. So I am very tired, so there may be errors"
> 
> I too did my best but if there are any errors please do let us know.  
> ________
> 
> We are alternating POVs between M and J so do let us know if the voices are correct.


	6. How did we get here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All summaries I tried were terrible so please proceed to the notes and then to the chapter :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the lovely Gem has written a bit more for us but we have decided that its too difficult for her for the time being and so there will be no more of her parts in the story (except the aforementioned bit in one chapter) But hopefully the fic will still keep earning at least a mature rating. But given my weakness for plot (no matter how flimsy or cliché) bear with me please.
> 
> I do now have the help of the wonderful **[Parivash007](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Parivash007/pseuds/Parivash007)**. Give her a few wolf-whistles everyone cos she knows her stuff. She gave the next few chapters a thorough read and commented and pointed out mistakes. (some really stupid ones). So a huge thanks to her.  
>  I still have no idea how to use the assistance of a beta so its all my fault that I will mess things up inspite of her lovely self.
> 
> 19-09-2016: Forgot to mention earlier. I cant believe it now but when I started writing this I actually went online to research if anyone recalled how John actually took his tea (milk, strength, sugar wise). In doing this significant research I've tripped on the exquisite [ enigmaticpenguinofdeath ](http://enigmaticpenguinofdeath.tumblr.com) on tumblr and mean to keep her not only because **she is a fellow Mycroft shipper** , but because that [piece on tea](http://enigmaticpenguinofdeath.tumblr.com/post/26358790781/a-guide-to-writing-sherlockian-tea-habits) is, yep exquisite.

John visited Sherlock’s grave every day. He went there to plead with Sherlock, beseeching him not to be dead. Sometimes he went and stood there silently, dry unmasked eyes bleeding. At other times, he went there and narrated his day asking and telling. Or he went there and simply sat on the bench a far-off smile on his face. He went there and caressed the stone, stroking the edges, never touching the carved lines of the name. He went there every day .

Mrs. Hudson accompanied him every other week. She took some flowers once. John knew that she had cried. She hid it from him. But he knew she had cried at the funeral and she teared up every time she dusted Sherlock’s room. He hadn’t entered it since… But she dusted it every week. The day she finally moved his experiments and cleaned and put it all in a box, John feared Baker St. would drown. The entire flat was frighteningly clean and tidy nowadays. He told Sherlock about it and asked whether he should grow some smelly mould in the sink, just for the heck of it.

Once he had met Molly at the cemetery. It was the end of the first month _after_. Sentimental Molly. But she hadn’t seemed to be grieving for Sherlock. No, instead she had seemed to be grieving for John. Strange Molly. She had joined him for coffee and they had talked about Sherlock. Sympathetic Molly. He told Sherlock about her, concluding that if anyone deserved his kindness and friendship it was she.

Today he felt rather different. Mycroft left sometime in the middle of the night. John had been drowsy so he isn’t sure, but he thought he did mumble good-bye. They had slept together—they’ve had _sex_ for two nights in a row now. The first night was surely pity. He wasn’t sure what last night meant, but, for some reason, he wasn’t disturbed about it. He felt _reassured_. He had decided that he needed _that_ and left it at that. He walked up to the grave and apologised for not coming the last two days. He was here today to tell Sherlock of Greg’s reinstatement. John berated Sherlock saying it would have been faster had Sherlock been working on it.

He did not mention Mycroft.

*****

John stepped into the ‘war room’. Donovan had christened it such and, in spite of the origins, he definitely approved.

Most of their small motley bunch was already there. He nodded to a few. They had an entire floor in the building and a secure entry to it. Lestrade had been an almost constant presence earlier and even now came when time permitted. Donovan had come here only the few times that she had needed information to clear Lestrade’s name. At least her loyalties, such as they were, had remained unshaken. The first time he met Donovan _after_ … she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He had passed her without acknowledging her. He hasn’t looked at her since. He can’t bring himself to speak to her. His usual affability deserts him in her presence. His loyalties remained unshaken as well.

Mycroft has done his usual trick and put together a good team. John walked to the desk he now considered his. He needed to go through the paper work of the pool incident. He was pretty sure that they were missing something important. He switched on his workstation and as it whirred to life he went to get himself a cup of tea in the adjoining pantry.

As he waited, unbidden thoughts crowded his mind— thoughts of Mycroft Holmes. But they weren’t his previous anger or irritation at the man. Instead there was a whole new set of images in his mind— Mycroft last night, Mycroft the whole of the last few months, Mycroft at the funeral, Mycroft bringing him here, Mycroft keeping steadfastly out of his space, Mycroft subtly ordering everyone out when he broke down, Mycroft distracting him with work, Mycroft smiling, Mycroft making him smile, Mycroft two nights ago, Mycroft kissing him, Mycroft… his…his… _friend_?

John questioned why he had never questioned any of it? Contrary to Sherlock’s opinion he wasn’t unobservant or curious. And Even years of the unquestioning obedience that the Army required hadn’t erased his natural curiosity or his professional training to observe. But these last few months he had been worse than what he had been on his return from Afghanistan. Seemingly he had let things slide by without a questioning glance. But now that he had started he couldn’t keep the observations away.

Mycroft had subtly but surely carved himself into John’s life and strangely John had let him. He poured the water and waited for the tea to steep . After that initial meeting, Mycroft’s presence in his life had never felt intrusive. Sherlock had called him a meddler and John had occasionally been irritated by his ways too, but mostly he had been comforted that Mycroft was watching Sherlock. He squeezed out the teabag and poured a little milk. As he replaced the milk and walked back, he recalled the first time he had come here.

He had initially refused all of Mycroft’s attempts at contacting him, even threatening him with physical harm on phone. He had blamed Mycroft for what had happened. He had needed a target and Mycroft had been right there. Mycroft had even confessed to it at the Diogenes. John had refused to speak or meet with anyone, including poor Mrs. Hudson. He had been grieving and if he wanted to wallow in grief and self-pity then it was nobody’s fucking business! Of course he had finally relented with Mrs. Hudson. The dear woman was grieving as well and she had known and loved Sherlock like a son. A few weeks later he had stumbled upon an opening in the St. Thomas’ A&E Hospital and was offered their evening shift three days a week. He frowned now wondering if he had overlooked one too many coincidences? Well he couldn’t be ungrateful. The work was much better for him than locum work at clinics.

A few weeks later Anthea had simply showed up at the hospital after his work and brought him here. All that in her usual ‘without a word or glance’ style of course he thought ruefully. He guessed that Mycroft had counted on him not lashing out at a woman, even if she was essentially his tool. Lestrade and the other two were already there and when they explained that they were working to clear Sherlock’s name and asked for his case notes he had instantly acquiesced. A “few questions only” quickly became a few hours each day and soon became all his free time. He wondered if he was as obsessed with Sherlock in death as he had been in his life? Would he ever be free? Did he want to be?

He had channelled all his frustration into the work here and when one day Mycroft had made an appearance he hadn’t even questioned it. He wondered now how Mycroft had known that John wouldn’t react in anger any longer?

The meeting was clear in his mind though.

*****

John had been immersed in reading a police report of one of Sherlock’s earlier cases with Lestrade. Mycroft had walked in and stopped at John’s desk. “ _Dr. Watson.” He’d dipped his head._

 _“Mycroft.” John had nodded back;_ strangely the urge to punch him had been absent.

_“Could I have a word please, if you aren’t too busy?”_

_“I suppose so.”_ John had followed him to an adjoining room. It was the only one that was usually kept locked and John was curious. He now could distinctly recall being a bit disappointed that it contained nothing other than four comfortable chairs around a small coffee table. He had seated himself on one and Mycroft had closed the door behind them and latched it. That had surprised John.

 _“The walls are sound proof,”_ Mycroft had said. John had simply tipped his head in acknowledgement. It was always best to let the man say his piece.

 _“I wanted to inform you that James Moriarty is dead.”_ John must have made some noise then because Mycroft had raised an imperious hand and continued, _“You have made consistent efforts to search for him and so I thought it best you know as soon as I did. He has been dead for some time now but we were able to confirm it only this week. Outside of my team you are the first to know.”_

 _“How…?”_ John trailed off. Mycroft had continued to hold up his hand as he explained in the most pedantic voice John had heard from him.

_“He died on the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital on the same day. Possibly at the same time. We found his body. We couldn’t be sure whether it was his body or another trick. The body resembled James Moriarty or Richard Brooks perfectly, down to matching the dental records and DNA from the correctional facilities. However, he had already proved himself a mastermind in manipulating stored data and laying false digital trails. He could easily have falsified those records and planted another body._

_“In addition, there were things that struck us as strange. One, why would he commit suicide? It was a suicide since he had been shot in the mouth; the fingerprints on the gun and the burn marks on his hands were conclusive. There was no sign of anyone else having been there. Also, why would he do that at the same time as Sherlock? The timing of his death was seemingly almost simultaneous. He had already achieved his goal of destroying my brother’s reputation and life after all._

_“I am afraid I still don’t have answers to any of those questions, but we have been able to trace his last surviving relation. The DNA from the body matches along with some physical similarities that may be family traits. There also has been a complete silence on his behalf in the criminal world when he should have been gloating and reaping the benefits of his actions._

_“I know there is always a sliver of doubt but I think we can lay that ghost to rest. Whatever be his reasons, I believe Sherlock’s actions that day played a part in it, and hence my brother’s death, while wholly unnecessary, was not completely useless.”_ Mycroft’s face had looked so stonily blank at that moment that John wondered how he had ever thought him unfeeling. The man obviously hurt too much.

 _“Given these circumstances, the knowledge of his death will not be made public. Along with the need to resolve these unanswered questions, there is the larger goal of dismantling Moriarty’s organization for which we need complete secrecy. I have never known you to be indiscreet. I will leave you to your work now. The door lock’s itself. Good day, Doctor.”_ Mycroft had then stood up and departed and for a long time John had sat in that small room feeling too many things at the same time.

_*****_

John sighed. He knew there was no point in dwelling on these questions but he couldn’t help wondering if Mycroft had wanted him to come here right from the start. He had waited for weeks, trying consistently to get in touch, usually texting John. _‘Mycroft never texts if he can call’_. Well that one phone call hadn’t really worked well had it? Then there was his A &E work that seemingly just ‘happened’. Mycroft had been… what … intruding? Meddling? Taking care of him? Carrying him through? And John had hardly registered it. In fact he had taken it for granted, taken _him_ for granted. How long had it been?

He leaned back and closed his eyes in despair. He had no answers to any of his questions and quite a few new ones. John wondered now at the many times that he had been allowed at Sherlock’s bedside even though he wasn’t family. Questioned why Sherlock hadn’t seen a single official repercussion to his ‘failure’ in the episode with Irene Adler. How was it that all the times that John had used his definitely illegal gun it had never been discovered and taken away? Surely, Greg couldn’t have kept the hounds at bay alone.

The list was staggeringly long. He couldn’t even begin to wonder at the last two nights. John pushed his guilt down, shook the images from the night away, finished his now cold tea in a gulp, and turned to the keyboard.

He opened file after file of the _pool_ _incident_. His notes were there as well. Now digitised thanks to the diligence of Mycroft’s people. What was he missing that he hadn’t thought of before?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fresh chapter after a very long time. I do apologise and hope that this will be the last break for quite some time. I did manage to edit the previous chapters a bit this week. Do re-read them if time permits.  
> This is longer than my usual chapters (i'm trying :D) but could get boring cos i'm laying out a few things in this one so I'm planning another one to introduce a few 'new' characters soon.
> 
> This ones a bit of what else has been happening between Sherlock's 'suicide' and Greg's reinstatement. Essentially I'm trying to say how they got to the point of chapter three, get these two idiots into it deeper, and also pave the way of Sherlock's return some time later. It hopefully answers some questions you may have. 
> 
> Let me know what ya all think. I have a definite plot line in mind for this one and thankfully the muse is going along with it in essence if not chapter and verse. But if you think of anything interesting these two might get up to (ANYTHING) do let me know.
> 
> Loads of love to all of you.


	7. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a shitty day. Mycroft intervenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have posted this unbetaed cos if I don't start posting again, I'll lose my momentum again. 
> 
> Apologies for my long absence. Please know that I have not abandoned the fic. I have quite a few chapters already written and the entire story (including the ending) plotted.
> 
> Possible triggers: As I mentioned earlier, John is working in A&E now. So there are a couple of nasty accidents described at the beginning. Please skip the second and third paragraphs if you need to. Just know that seeing humans unnecessarily hurt gets our dear doctor mad and he is really tired and drained out.
> 
> The latter half of the chapter is smutty but like all my smut it's fluffed smut.
> 
> 21/03/17: Edited because certain feels weren't clear enough or so i think. Also I apologise about going back and forth on my old stuff when i should be posting fresh chapters.

It was rather warm even for London summers and there were at least three hours to sunset when Dr. Watson exited the A&E that evening. It had been one of those days when the stupidity of humans made him almost wish he had taken up professional rugby playing or kindergarten teaching instead.

One was a teenage girl caught in an accident at an unauthorised drag racing. It had been a battle for her life. She would be scarred for life and would need months of physiotherapy before she could use her hand again. The sheer idiocy of the youth! They think they are infallible and invincible. He wanted to shake each and every one of them and scream at them. Even now she had yet to gain back her consciousness. God! He was bloody tired.

He had been about to leave when the other case had come. A fucking amputation! A normal middle aged man walking to the bus-stop after a normal working day had lost his leg because another bloody youth had rammed his car into him at high speed. The young man didn’t get even a fucking scratch – no he was not complaining about it— but John was glad that the police were waiting for him to get down from his high. He still felt that anyone driving under influence should be charged with ‘intent to kill’. Accident or no.

So much loss! So bloody tired.

When the black car with tinted glasses glided to the kerb beside him and slowed to a halt purring softly, John Watson opened the door and seated himself without a thought. It came almost naturally now. What took him by surprise was finding Mycroft Holmes sharing his comfortably cool leather seat. That had never happened. He said hello he supposed. He must have, there is an answering smile on Mycroft’s face. The hardly discernible glance that read him must already know all about his day (unless his omniscient network had already informed him). Were they supposed to meet today? What had been on agenda for ‘Sherlock’s case’? He couldn’t recall. Fuck! He must be bloody dead on his feet if he could forget things on that front. His confusion was of course obvious to the man in the car. But, would Mycroft help him out? Nooooo. The Holmeses were not men who resolved your confusions. They revelled in confounding lesser beings like him. Bloody fucking berks the two of them.

John closed his eyes and leaned back. Not caring one whit that his co-passenger was reading him clearly. He wanted to clear his mind. He would shower again once he got home. May be a wank just to get it all out of his mind. Fuck! He was tired.

His thoughts would have gone on in this vein but for the soft cool hand on his brow. The unexpected gesture failed to startle him. It simply made him sink into the seat further with a sigh. Slowly, ever so gently the hand stroked his forehead upwards all the way to his crown and then back again. Then he felt Mycroft scoot closer and adjust himself. Now the second cool hand joined in. This one massaged his brows. Nose-bridge, brows, temple. Softly. Gently. And again.

A small sigh broke from him then and without conscious thought or intent he turned towards Mycroft. Mycroft gathered him up, one hand around John’s shoulders, the other still stroking his head. John inhaled the clean, healthy scent of his companion and relaxed into the embrace. His right arm was trapped between man and leather but the left unwittingly rose to grip the front of Mycroft’s shirt as he snuggled in further. He needed this. So much. Mycroft’s hand drifted from his head down his shoulder and back, stroking and soothing. A few minutes passed or perhaps a few hours, or perhaps no time at all. But John knew that he was now focused here and now. He felt anchored.

*****

Mycroft Holmes couldn’t help himself. His lo—, his fr—, Dr. W—, John had needed him and he had come unbidden. It was a good thing that he had been in the city and had been free to come. Not only had he come but had touched John uninvited, had offered comfort unasked. He was sure that John had planned simply to go back home, perhaps take another shower, masturbate and sleep. He had eaten. The new nurse in A&E was rather diligent about the well being of the two bachelor doctors on the team. Of course, he had changed into his street clothes and not stepped out wearing surgical robes as some medics did either to save time or some even to show-off. He could smell that John had also showered at the hospital itself. He had used his own shower-gel and shampoo and not the hospital issued ones.

Interesting, thought Mycroft. For all that the A&E work had pulled him back from the brink of despair that Sherlock’s death had pushed him to, Doctor Watson was diligent in keeping it away from his home. He never let it in even a little. Going to extreme lengths to— no not to become normal, John Watson could never be that— hmmm what then? – Ah yes, to revert to John Watson, resident of 221B, blogger and friend of Sherlock Holmes. Yes, it seemed the two were to be kept apart.

He continued to soothe the doctor. Gratified to hear his even breath and feel his relaxed muscles against his body. Only the hand gripping his shirt told of the lingering tension. Something would have to be done about that too. His hand grew bolder, his strokes firmer and passed over more. First the entire back, as wide across the shoulders as possible (he had long hands, and even with John’s square shoulders and wide back, it was quite possible), then it wandered beyond the belt, another arc and the gentle swell of John’s arse was caressed, a few more revolutions and then Mycroft’s hand gently rubbed John’s thighs all the way to his knees. John finally succumbed and pulled up a knee across Mycroft’s thigh. Had Mycroft been any less focussed on his task he would have registered his own gratified sigh.

So far he had done everything without John’s express consent, but now he needed it. So, giving John all the time to read his intent and acquiesce (or refuse), Mycroft firmly but slowly dragged his fingers up to the belt. He then bent his hand and pushed it between their bodies and cupped John softly. Asking. John’s answering whimper nearly broke his control. This was for John, only for John, he admonished himself. Give, he commanded his own libido as John tightened his hand in Mycroft’s shirt while easing his legs apart. Mycroft caressed John through the soft ribs of the corduroy with gentle circles of his palm. He felt John’s insistence and arousal growing. John was trying to push into his hand even as he tried to spread himself and allow the hand better access. Mycroft deftly unbuckled John’s belt and then with excruciating reluctance removed the other hand from around John. But even his nimble fingers needed help.

He unbuttoned and unzipped John and was further gratified when, unbidden, John lifted his hips to help him as Mycroft slid down trousers and boxers. That was definitely explicit consent. He bent to slide John’s clothing beyond his knees for ease when he had a sudden change of plans. No, masturbation wouldn’t do. Yes, it had started as only giving, but couldn’t he have something too? Just a bit for himself. He lifted his head to straighten himself, but John chose that moment to open his eyes and look at Mycroft. Properly, for the first time today. The tired yet open smile on his lips would have done it for Mycroft, but when John lifted his hands to Mycroft’s face, Mycroft’s control slipped quite a few notches. John rubbed his thumbs on Mycroft’s cheek and then leaned back again. His fingers ran through Mycroft’s hair, combing it back softly. Then one hand pinched an ear gently, and glided down the lobe to rest on the slight dip behind. Then, the smile still lingering, John closed his eyes. As if, surrendering to the safety of his company, and Mycroft felt his control fractured beyond repair.

Disentangling from the man his heart was enmeshed so fully in, Mycroft slid to the floor of the car. A movement that had captured quite a few people with it’s simplicity and natural grace. Yet today, he did it with nary a thought to showing it off and it was anyways lost to the doctor who had closed his eyes again.

Mycroft nuzzled John’s groin and inhaled deeply. His natural musky smell was yet to fully overcome that of his shower gel. He wished John hadn’t been so diligent in the shower. He opened his mouth and dragged his inner lip over the penis. Above him, John let out a soft sigh as his hand drifted to settle behind Mycroft’s head. Mycroft licked down the shaft. He licked the slightly hairy almost dusky sacs thoroughly; eliciting more sighs and groans from John. Mycroft’s fingers continued to caress John’s thighs, kneading, scraping, soothing, mapping. He blew gently over the wet balls and felt John shiver. He took off one hand to stroke John. Leaning in further he took one in his mouth. Gently rolling it he let his tongue bathe it further. Testing the texture and the heaviness. He felt John arrest his thighs from thrusting and felt triumphant. He then switched to the other side and repeated it. This time he sucked a bit harder and John groaned seemingly in protest even as he tightened his hold on Mycroft’s head. Mycroft continued his play till he was sure that he had rid John of any traces of artificial aroma. John smelled deliciously of his own musk mingled with that of Mycroft’s mouth. He wondered if his own mouth had the same smell now and whimsically wished he could capture it.

John was now sprawled over the seat, his eyes closed, his face upturned. Mycroft undid the buttons of his shirt and parted it to caress that compact beautiful body from neck to the belly. He kept his touch, firm and soothing, teasing wouldn’t do, not yet. He pressed kisses inside John’s thighs and his groin, while his hands mapped those stoic shoulders, the smooth sides, the soft belly that had lost it’s small pudge now, the innie surrounded by crisp hair. Slowly he changed the tone of his touch. A nail scraped here, a nip down below, changing from hard tugging to feather light, and when John’s arousal had notched further, Mycroft brought one hand down as well. His hand gently fondled John’s sac as he licked up all the way to the tip of his penis. He looked up to check for visual cues and found John staring at him wide eyed. His look had such open need. He seemed to be pleading and yet seemed to accept that he could— they could do this. He looked beautiful.

Mycroft kept their eyes engaged as he stuck his pointy tongue out and rolled it’s tip around the head, he swept it around harder and harder, repeating it faster each time. John’s eyes widened impossibly and he let out a small whimper as if in pain. John lifted his other hand and rested it on Mycroft’s cheek. His plea did not go unheeded as Mycroft opened his mouth obscenely wide and sank down around the crown of John’s penis and gave a hard suck. John let out a strangled cry and closing his eyes he flung his head back even as his hips thrust up. Mycroft knew the last had been involuntary and took it as assurance to continue on this path.

He opened again and took in as much of John in as he could. He felt, the weight of John on his tongue, the satiny smoothness of his skin, the substantial hardness, the feel of his surrounding skin on his face, the hitched breath he could hear. He knew he was getting aroused and there wasn’t time or occasion to take care of himself. Instead he lost himself in sucking John’s cock as if their lives depended on it.

He varied the strength, he varied his tongue’s strokes, he varied his speed, but in the end it wasn’t long before John lost his control completely and rudely thrust into his mouth, mumbling to warn Mycroft. And when John spurted his orgasm he had a pristine handkerchief ready at hand to wrap it around and contain it. He would have loved to swallow and lap it all up but he knew that neither of them was ready for it. Perhaps John never would be. It was a small sorrow but it was his to bear and even that was something precious since John had inadvertently given it.

*****

John woke up slightly disoriented. He realised that he was on his sofa, that the afghan was around him and that the flag cushion ably supported his neck. He had woken thanks to his bladder. He padded to the bathroom and realised that he was still in his street clothes, but his shoes, socks and belt were missing. It all came to him then. Mycroft, car seat, the blowjob, and… and then… yes, he had all but passed out after coming. Mycroft’s chauffeur had followed him in and up the stairs. Possibly helped him get to sleep here. He yawned and thought of those long fingers caressing him, the lovely eyes looking up from the floor of the car, that prim mouth widening. If he hadn’t been so tired (and so blissfully orgasmed out) he would have had a wank right away. He smiled as he snuggled back into the warm sofa.

*****

When they had reached Baker St. shortly it had taken all of Mycroft’s will-power to direct Aman, in his stead, to help the doctor into the house. It was daylight still and there were always eyes looking at 221. John had momentarily roused himself, thanked him politely, walked resolutely to the door and unlocked it. But Mycroft knew that he had been near collapsing and Aman had dutifully followed him till he shucked his shoes and jacket and went to sleep on the sofa. Aman had reportedly placed a cushion beneath his neck and covered him with a throw. Mycroft wondered if the doctor would even recall any of it. He however, couldn’t forget anything.

That night in bed, Mycroft lay naked, stroking himself, thinking of John. He had a fresh encounter full of visuals to help him. He groaned as he recalled John’s initial irritation, his resignation as he closed his eyes. Mycroft recalled the softness of John’s hair, the slow release of the tension coiled in him. Everything about John called to him. John’s eyes as he had looked up to him, the soft sounds he made when he was aroused, the stutter of his breath, the tug of his hand, the utter bliss on his face after he came. But what drove him truly mad was the sheer trust the man showed in slumping against him and dozing off, after. It had taken all of his will-power not to hold him tight against himself, or to unzip his own trousers and seek his own peak. He came as he thought of John Watson’s soft breaths against his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Was it in character for them?  
> Sorry if it made you feel that I hate youth. I don't. My stupid and loveable younger brother (he is just finishing college) is one and I would never blame him (or any of his age) for all things that go wrong. I just wanted John to have a target for his anger.  
> And yeah according to me John is one angry bloke (see my [character description for John](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6975046) in the Sketches series)
> 
> I'm not yet sure whether Mycroft is right in why John removes any physical traces of his time at the A&E so seriously before he enters 221B. Perhaps it's just his way always as a doctor to compartmentalise. But I don't think so. After all he was still angry when he stepped out. i wonder if Mycroft is right.
> 
> This chapter is meant just to show a progression of their relationship. Does it seem artificial or unnatural?  
> Am I going too slow? Do you think it isn't like Mycroft to do this?  
> I think Mycroft would totally try and help John any which way he could but does it sound ok to you that he would do this?  
> Do you think John, having been part of a war wouldn't react so strongly to those accidents? Is it strange that John forgot about Sherlock and his mission to clear Sherlock's name for a while?
> 
> I'd love to hear from you guys on what you think. 
> 
> PS: So yeah, hopefully I will post another chapter again this week. The last few months have been crazy and Im sorry for letting this slip through. Thanks for sticking with it. Many hugs to you.


	8. Doctor? Friend? Lo-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What exactly are we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm publishing two chapters today.  
> These have been looked over by the lovely Parivash007.

He was at his desk in the war-room again when John lost track of time and worked well into the night. He had noticed himself slipping into his irregular habits from medical school all the way to the foundation programme, even his training as a surgeon. He had been a good student but not necessarily the best and he had had to work just as hard as the books and TV shows suggested med students did. Which had meant subsisting on very little sleep, bad food and terrible hours. It wasn’t until he got into the army that discipline had been drummed into him and had become a way of life.

This return to his bad habits actually felt welcome. He had a focus back then and had put his all into it. It was once more the same.

He was alone in the ‘war room’ when his mobile rang. He was so immersed in his work that he frowned at the sound. It was Anthea.

“Doctor Watson, please come downstairs. It is an emergency.” She called off.

Someday, he thought shaking his head, Ms. Anthea whatever-her-second-name-was, would get a lecture on communication etiquette, as he quickly switched off his workstation. He jogged to the private elevator, feeling his pockets absentmindedly for his keys, mobile and wallet. He stepped into the black car idling near the entrance. He was alone save for the chauffeur. He knew only too well that none of his queries would be answered and so kept them to himself. He would know soon enough what the emergency was. It was barely a ten minutes drive to wherever they were going. Anthea was waiting outside a nondescript office building.

As she ushered him in, she looked her usual unruffled self, sans the blackberry, but she spoke in rapid though sure tones. John, who had barely exchanged a dozen sentences so far with her, realised that this indicated the _emergency_ was rather dire. For all her outwardly calm, Anthea was concerned, perhaps even anxious.

“Doctor Watson, it is a bullet wound to the inside of his arm. There is no chance that the bullet has lodged inside the body. There may also be bruises on the torso. Perhaps a cracked rib. His breathing is still quite sharp. He was wearing an impact-dispersing vest but the assailant was quite close. The retained surgeon is unavailable. In here.” The whole— _you are the only other discreet capable surgeon available—_ was left unsaid and John was grateful for it. An assassination attempt that had to be kept quiet. Whoever was injured must be quite high up in the hierarchy and perhaps worked in the same department as Mycroft. Whichever that was.

The interiors looked like somebody’s idea of a posh Victorian office. Anthea knocked perfunctorily and opened a door. This room was definitely not an office but a living room. So someone who could afford a posh office cum living space but not the time or effort it takes to keep the two separate. Yup, very high in the hierarchy.

The lights were dim, there were heavily curtained tall windows to the far side and a large old fashioned desk had three people at it. Two men and a woman. As they approached two of them, very obviously the subordinates, rose and nodded to Anthea with deference. The third merely turned in his seat. John hoped he showed no pain because it was clear that Mycroft Holmes was badly injured and had lost quite a bit of blood. He had removed his jacket and there was a tourniquet tied on his left upper arm close to the shoulder joint. The sleeve of his white shirt as well as the side of his light grey waistcoat was drenched in red. There were two more bullet holes on the chest of his garments. He was flexing his fist regularly to keep the circulation from being cut off totally. Obviously this wasn’t the first time he had taken a bullet. Mycroft frowned as his subordinates quickly exited the room without his permission. John noted amusedly that clearly in some instances Anthea directed actions. Every Holmes needed a Watson.

He waited patiently while Mycroft stood up and turned reluctantly to him. Quickly but efficiently, he turned the chair Mycroft had been using to face the room and pulled another close to it. Then he switched on the closest lamp. John removed his own jacket and rolled up his jumper sleeves and went to the adjoining bathroom to scrub his hands. When he returned, Anthea gave him a clean towel. She had placed some medical and surgical supplies on the desk. It was rather sophisticated for such a small collection. He looked to his patient. The frown on Mycroft’s face had deepened and he now sat looking like a king doing the peasants a huge favour merely by being in their presence. Clearly, the Holmes brothers had too many things in common.

He made a quick decision. The waistcoat and shirt had to come off and while he had only seen Mycroft without one twice and had even helped on those occasions, he now needed to keep this impersonal and professional, “I need you to undress your torso, Mr. Holmes. May I help you?”

Mycroft scowled and pulled off his tie and started to undo his buttons. He was clearly in pain and refusing to let anyone help him. The reason for Anthea’s anxiety was clear. As much as he needed a surgeon, this man also needed a nanny. However, he had dealt with the Holmeses of this world enough not to relent now. “I do insist on helping,” he said and firmly took over.

He had to steel himself. This was the very flesh that he had caressed just the previous night. It wasn’t that he hadn’t treated grievous injuries before. Quite the contrary. He also wasn’t unused to treating friends and close associates for them. The army and Sherlock had ensured that. However, he had never had to treat someone he had been intimate with. Had never had to see a body, which he had worshipped with his own, wounded and bleeding.

He untied the tourniquet, deftly unbuttoned Mycroft’s clothes and pulled them off him with care. Then he took off the flexible, thin and highly sophisticated bulletproof lining. It looked practically undamaged but the skin underneath told a very different story.

He had heard rumours of such protective vests in the army and some of his colleagues had wished wistfully for such lightweight protection in the hot desert, instead of their bulky and heavy one. But clearly at close quarters you were better off with the latter. There were ugly bruises from the bullet impacts, one directly above the nipple and another beneath the clavicle. The wound on the arm was bleeding sluggishly and he started with that first.

He worked with the same quiet efficiency that he had learnt in the army—cleansing, anaesthetizing, stitching and dressing the wound, checking for any damage not clearly apparent, checking for broken ribs (mercifully, there were none), rubbing salve on the bruises, asking about tetanus shots and allergic reactions to painkillers (Anthea replied), injecting antibiotics, writing a prescription for anti-inflammatory analgesics, a course of oral antibiotics, as well as antacids for possible side-effects with dosage instructions (he addressed them to Anthea).

He listed the possible course the body would take to heal and what to expect. He stressed that he was to be called upon immediately if certain scenarios emerged. It was clear that these two had gone through this scenario before (the numerous scars he had seen on Mycroft’s body now and before, some of which he was sure were quite recent, bore testimony to that) but he wasn’t going to neglect his duties as a doctor.

John knew instinctively that he wouldn’t be welcome to stay overnight. So he told Anthea, “He needs to be under medical supervision through the night.”

“We have a qualified and experienced nurse. He is waiting outside. But I would rather the two of you not see each other, doctor.”

He nodded then requested Anthea to ensure that _the patient_ had regular food and drink and not to allow any painkillers on an empty stomach, as well as complete rest for at least twenty-four hours.

“I will be available whenever you require. You know my clinic hours. I can be here to follow up during lunch tomorrow. However, if _your_ surgeon takes over I will communicate my case observations and treatment to them.”

He then turned to Mycroft, looked into his eyes, and said, “Please take the instructions seriously, Mr. Holmes. You may feel light-headed due to the blood loss. It is by a very small margin that you do not require a blood transfusion. Please do not neglect to take complete rest.”

Mycroft nodded and said, “Thank you Doctor Watson,” in clear dismissal.

John walked out of the room, climbed into the waiting car and tried not to worry. He was sure that he would not be called for again, equally sure that the team’s surgeon would already be on the way to take over, and he was sure the person would be highly competent. But he couldn’t be sure that his friend and some time sex-partner would realise his concern.

He had seemed to resent having to let John into his professional life. But John was grateful that he had been told. He was grateful that he had helped. Mycroft could easily have let some days go past, and then showed up when the wound healed enough that they could once again have sex. John knew even being a doctor and a friend (and yes that damned term again – sometime-sex-partners) he wouldn’t have asked any intrusive questions. He would have been curious and concerned and would have later laid alone wondering how bad it had been and wishing he could have been there for Mycroft. But he would not have asked Mycroft anything. So he was immeasurably grateful to… whosoever made the decision to call him.

He hoped his concern had been plain and Mycroft would understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is short but I've got another one waiting. Let me read it through for glaring errors.  
> This one's for n_a. I know it's not as much as you'd have liked but hell I can't beat him up more cos I love him.  
> I do hope I got the progression of a medical student in the UK right. Wasn't sure when John would have joined the army so kinda left it vague. Sorry.
> 
> Please drop me a note cos I'd love to hear from you.


	9. You could have called

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idiots!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Parivash for looking this over.  
> In case it hasn't been made clear earlier- I'm calling Anthea 'A' and she has a somewhat broader role

John held out for a full eleven waking hours before he succumbed.

He spent the entire day wondering whether to call or message, and who to call and when. There were two numbers he could use. One that Anthea had used last night. She usually called him from numbers that did not show up on his mobile screen but had not done so last night. Last night a number had registered with his mobile’s caller-id. He was sure that it had occurred to the highly intelligent woman that she was leaving a trace on his phone, and equally sure that his phone could be now easily accessed by Mycroft’s operatives and it’s caller history could be accessed, modified, wiped at anytime they wanted. He had merely saved the number unlabelled.

The second number was the one Mycroft used to call him. He had first given John the number for use if Sherlock ever got into trouble. Mycroft had then used it during ‘ _that time’_ to try and call John. John was grateful Mycroft hadn’t tried to trick him to speaking by using an unidentified number. Now, Mycroft used the number to let John know he was bringing dinner or some such minor matter. The conversation was always very brief and it was always Mycroft who called.

He wasn’t sure if he should call as a doctor, or as a…fucking hell, what were they? He let the question go unanswered in a wave of typical-British-male-ummm-discretion.

He considered sending a query via a text message. But that lasted only a few moments before he decided that would be too cowardly and decided to call instead. Which again led to the question of who to call. Which led to the question of who was enquiring— doctor or … bloody buggering fuck!

Finally, around half-past-six he screwed up his courage and picked the phone and nearly dropped it when it pinged with an incoming message. “Call him,” said the _anonymous_ number. Shaking his head ruefully at bloody geniuses and their PAs or whoever she was, he dialled and waited hoping it wouldn’t go to voice-mail. He had no bloody clue what message would not be awkward.

It was picked up. “Good evening, John!”

*****

Mycroft felt his phone vibrate and plucked it off the desk. It was John. He pressed receive without giving himself any time to think.

“Good evening, John!”

“Um, hi. Just wanted to ask—“

“I’m feeling fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Good. That’s good. And umm have you—“

“I have followed your instructions and have been seated for most of the day.”

“Uh, great. Good.”

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you—”

“No, please don’t say sorry. Of course we can’t. Just wanted to make sure that, you know, you were fine.”

“Of course, thank you.”

“Um, ok then.”

“Was there anything else, John?”

“Um, no. No. Just. Yeah just that.”

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Mycroft.”

John disconnected and let out a stream of curses. Fucking dimwit! When the hell had he turned into a fucking sixteen year old with a downy beard and a vocabulary of just four sodding words two of them umm and ah? He had sounded worse than a fucking teen with a fucking crush.

At the other end, Mycroft pressed his fingers between his brows. Bloody hell! Since when was he nervous speaking to John Watson? Could he have sounded more rude and ungracious? First, he had been miffed at John for being so professionally aloof the night before (and secretly proud too), then he was peeved that John spoke mostly to A and not to him directly, then he was upset that John had not wanted to stay (he would have been firmly declined but…), then he had felt neglected and ill-used when John failed to call him this morning to enquire. But now that the man called him he had been a bloodless, cold and distant bureaucratic automaton.

He envied Sherlock the easy camaraderie he shared with John. The two had fallen into it instantly and effortlessly. Sherlock was the most tactless conversationalist in the kingdom, and here was the elder Holmes, a seasoned diplomat, and he had to compose the entire conversation in his head before he called John. This was the very first time that John called him on his own, just a friendly concerned call mind you, and Mycroft had spoken like a snooty robot. Mycroft rubbed his fingers between his brows.

He had been mostly truthful with John. He had taken every precaution that John had advised last night except resting. He just couldn’t afford it right now. He could not be seen as too weak to even protect his own self. The intelligence community could be ruthless. He was sure that those who had commandeered the attack would selectively leak untraceable rumours of it— both to his allies and his opposition, at home and outside. The possibility of even his temporary incapacitation could cause upheaval at home and abroad, disrupting many negotiations or agreements painstakingly reached. His pale appearance and dark circles could hide under foundation and concealer and most of his colleagues and employees wouldn’t bat an eyelid. After all, almost all of them used those. He trusted A to handle almost everything if he wasn’t available. Given the number of meetings he had to waste his time on, the tedious dinners and the time needed to travel around, she did handle a large amount of his work. But, he couldn’t afford NOT to be seen today. So he had gone through with each and every scheduled meeting and call, even as, behind the scenes, his people dug through every lead to know who had been behind the attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote two short ones instead of a single long one cos I hope to make less mistakes that way.  
> In my head, Mycroft has decided that he will take what he can and for however long he can, so basically he has defined it for himself. And he keeps taking charge of their interactions and sort of confining them for what he thinks is mutual beneficial and emotional safety. He is still an idiot though.  
> John on the other hand is still feeling his way through and may feel a little OOC cos he is not being firm enough. In my mind Mycroft is a lot worse than Sherlock (who John reached out to comparatively easily). Plus John is someone who takes things to heart and so is still recovering from Sherlock's loss. But I promise he will get there cos hey it's Capt. John Watson!


	10. I wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day ends

As the day ended, Mycroft took his medication. The nurse had retired after a last check up post dinner. He slid into the bed and switched off the lamp. It had been a usual day. No more busy than the norm. It was just this tiredness that had been unusual. His forties weren’t treating him well. Or rather he wasn’t treating his forties well he admitted ruefully. He had never been much of a fitness fanatic but after his debacle as an overweight teen he had regulated his eating and exercise. It had served him well in the field. In his of youth, a regulated lifestyle and the stubbornness of a Holmes had carried him through much. But Sherlock was right. Mycroft did not enjoy running around, scampering for clues. He sighed thinking of Sherlock. For a change, he knew where his brother was tonight. _Mr. Sigerson_ was in Algiers, purportedly waiting for a flight to Tanzania to see the Kilimanjaro. Though he would spend the night tracing a link in human trafficking.

His thoughts then took him to John (as they always did now). That call had been a disaster. He laughed suddenly. A bitter-sweet laugh, self-realisation with a bit of derision, a touch of sadness and just a tiny hint of pity. He was glad he was too tired to masturbate tonight or his fantasies would have involved an inarticulate curmudgeon trying to seduce a brave blogger.

At Baker St. John and Mrs. Hudson had a meal together. She had returned from her twice-a-year sojourn to her sister’s and John had had a shift at the A&E followed by a _disastrous_ call. In short, neither was in a mood to cook and takeaway in front of telly sounded perfect. Though she did insist they use _proper_ forks and plates instead of eating out of the boxes as he had suggested. Of course, John had been the one to wash them while she put away the leftovers. He wished they had done this more often when Sherlock had been around. If Sherlock had been there he would have been the centre of their conversation, either by choice or actions (or inaction) but now they deliberately avoided speaking of him. He wished they could freely speak of him. He wished for those times. He wished.

He then made her smile by pompously ‘prescribing’ an early night and made his way up again after checking the front door. More telly or reading didn’t appeal and he felt strangely reluctant to linger in the sitting room. He changed, returned for his night routine, gathered his mobile, checked the windows, switched off all lights and walked up to his room. He missed Sherlock badly on such nights. He wished he could call Mycroft. Not just to enquire about his recovery, but to talk. John was sure minimal standing did not translate to fully resting, so he would ask after Mycroft’s day and tell him about his own. He wished he could just call because he wanted to. He wished… damn. Fucking damn. He wished.

It had been difficult last night to be strictly professional. He wasn’t that formal even at the hospital. With Sherlock he had accompanied his nursing and medicating with scolding, commiserating, laughing, shouting, scowling, giggling, analysing, listening (everything that had been missing last night), and he used to make as much fuss as possible both during and after. It had taken all his control not to hold Mycroft, to touch him and soothe him, to ask if it hurt too much, to say that he could let go and show pain. He wished he could have asked to be alone. He wished he could have taken care of him and not the nurse. He wished he could have taken an off because his… because his… his _someone_ was hurt and needed him at… at home? He wished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of the whole Mycroft whump episode. Sorry it was more them figuring out than the whump.  
> Next will be a bit more of John's army past (cos I can). Rather angsty.  
> Gosh this story is going through a sad patch isn't it.
> 
> I haven't yet decided what Mrs H thinks about Mycroft and John getting together esp since even my head canon says she is a Johnlock shipper!   
> For the time being I'm taking the coward's way out of her not knowing. Owing to his knowledge of the reasons behind Sherlock's 'jump' Mycroft is being extremely discreet and very few people know of his 'visits' to Baker St.


	11. Severed memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recalls Baghdad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be very triggery in that it has the death of a child. And though I originally thought of it as a hurt/comfort fic (John/OMC) i have since realised that it may not seem so to all. Please do proceed with caution.  
> It can be entirely skipped if you want.

John isn’t sure why he recalled that incident that night. He hadn’t thought of it in a very long time. It had been in Baghdad, much before Afghanistan. They had seen such scenes before. Many of them. Too many of them. There hadn't been anything new to it. They had been months into that tour and after so much of the same they should have been immune to it or at least numb.

It had been a regular patrol. They had been gone all morning without any incident. It was on their way back that they saw _it_. The severed arm of a child. Couldn't have been more than five. It had been thrown from the blast site, which even now smouldered tiredly about a hundred yards away. Possibly a car bomb. There was a black thread around the small wrist, to ward off the evil eye. It was spotted with tiny pits of blood from the debris that must have flown at it. There was a bit of charred cloth stuck to the elbow and above. It rested on its side, the palm facing away from them.

They approached the site mechanically and with caution. As all experienced soldiers do. One of the medics, O’Connor, picked the arm and put it away. There were no more bodies or human remains on the scene anymore. The forces or the locals must have taken it all away.

Back at the barracks, John couldn't shake away the vision of that arm. Even as he showered, changed into tracks and tee and went to lie down on his bunk. He couldn't close his eyes. To do so seemed like sacrilege, a denial. He went through it all in a numb haze. The sight of the blast had been no different than others before it. He had seen mangled bodies before. He couldn’t say what was different about this one.

There was a knock on his door and someone entered without his say so. O'Connor. He was similarly dressed, freshly showered. John wondered if he too had the same numb expression on his own face.

"I had them give it a proper burial," O'Connor said unbidden. "Sayeed read the last rites. He was upset that I did not shower and change for it but… I couldn't. I couldn't. I wanted her to rest before I... Before." There had been no sign that the child had been a girl. But they all had their ways of coping. John knew that O'Connor had three boys back in Doncaster.

His uninvited visitor sat down on the foot of his bed unbeckoned, removed his shoes and pulled his legs up. He sat there with his legs pulled close. His temple cradled by his knees.

John pulled up one leg to give O'Connor more space. He continued to lay there on his back, his hands resting behind the back of his head. He tried to think normal things. Things like recalling if John had stoppered and put away the bottle of gun oil correctly. Things like ensuring that he had put away Harry's last letter in his case. Things like O'Connor never putting shoes on his bed. The man was a medic too but beat John and every other doctor in hygiene and sanitisation.

It didn't help. He still couldn't close his eyes and O'Connor was still there face on knees, clean sock clad feet on the sheets. He wondered if O'Connor could still feel the touch of that arm just as John could still see it. Did tidy and neat O'Connor not want to shower or change before interring that tiny remnant of a torn human because it would wash 'her' away?

He sat there in silence, then O'Connor turned to John and uncurling himself crawled up to him. He was hunched on his fours to John's right. The dirty light from the window illuminated exactly half of his face. "Can I touch you?"

John looked at him blankly. What was it he had asked?

"Please, Watson."

John nodded, not knowing what he had agreed to. O'Connor's body gave a tiny slump of seeming gratitude and relief. He reached down and pulled down John's leg and then scooted and straddled John's thigh. He pulled up John's Tshirt just above his stomach then pulled his track bottoms and boxers. John lifted up like a robot to help.

This was not a caring but impersonal stripping of a patient that medics world over were used to. There was nothing clinical or professional in the way O’Connor laid parts of him bare. He seemed to touch John’s body no more than was needed. When he had exposed just enough skin, O'Connor laid a hand on Watson’s belly. He combed his fingers through the trail of hair there, his other hand simply resting on John’s waist. Slowly, diligently, with tender care he mapped each square inch of the exposed torso. Then keeping that hand on John’s navel he moved the other to his thighs. Fingers and palm trailed over the small patch of thighs revealed, the soft inner skin, the sides of his arse, the crease of his groin. At first he was only accidentally brushing his penis or his balls, but then after unending minutes of caressing his thighs, O’Connor palmed John’s cock and balls in one go. John was barely even half hard. O’Connor gently caressed them, stirring them to arousal with his right hand, while he stroked the rest of the exposed skin with his left hand. Softly caressing his stomach, his groin, his thighs. Never straying beyond the bare skin. His right hand never touched John anywhere else either. It didn’t dip beyond the balls. It was strangely mechanical and yet so human and warm. As he saw O’Connor bent over, seemingly in deep concentration, John felt his arms loosen and his eyes turned heavy. It was now difficult to keep them open. His breath grew dense and yet it was now easier to breathe. It was ok to breathe. To close his eyes. To feel. He gave a soft moan. Of pain.

O'Connor was quiet and steady and focused. He didn't dither or change his stance or his touch. A drop of moisture hit John’s chest, followed by another and another, soaking through his shirt. His eyes startled open. There was another one trembling on the bridge of O’Connor’s nose. John put his hands around the soldier, dragging up his Tshirt. He caressed his comrade’s back soothing the flesh along the spine all the way to the still covered bottom. It was comforting to touch another human. He closed his eyes again to lend O’Connor some privacy. He stroked up and down, realising that even this touch was as selfish as the one O’Connor was giving. John needed this. Soon he was coming, wordlessly, a muted cry of pain and relief aborted in his throat, drenching the hands caressing him and his own abdomen. His eyes scrunched tight he drifted into sleep.

As he thought about it, he couldn’t recall if O’Connor had found his release as well. The worst of it all— at that time he hadn’t given a fucking damn.

He still isn’t sure why he recalled it today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I recall something sad and can't figure out why. And since I do end up putting a bit of myself in John (a very small bit, none of me is as gutsy as him) I thought John would do that as well.  
> So this happened. I am still not sure I shouldn't have left it as a ficlet in one of my other series.  
> I know this one's rather more sombre so sorry if you had dropped in for some fluffy angst that i usually write.  
> Hopefully this will end our sad spell and i will write something different


	12. Brothers, friends, lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just recall here that A is Anthea.  
> Mr. Scott is Sherlock in hiding. A knows all about it. I like the idea of Anthea as someone who is a Holmes in all but the name and is actually far far worse than even Mycroft!  
> Rivers is an OC. He is a Mycroft minion who is involved in Sherlock's missions on Mycroft's end but does not know much else except Mr. Scott is a field operative and everything is on a need to know basis as per usual.
> 
> In A and Mycroft's conversation, the first part is about the mission the underlined about a date.
> 
> Thanks to the very nice Parivash007 for giving this a dekko and not rolling her eyes at my mistakes.

It had been a month since that night when John had patched up Mycroft, and they had ‘met’ a few times thereafter. But it was always at Mycroft’s behest, whenever his schedule permitted, and always at 221B. If there was time, Mycroft brought dinner and on two occasions he had even brought groceries. He hoped that John didn’t think he was judging him or presuming. But A had handed him the bag and Mycroft had simply let A dictate. It was easier not to argue with her about such things. But the current situation was untenable.

She had been vociferously pushing him. Mycroft had suffered a week of unrelenting parallel conversations between them.

“Here are the dates that she was at the hotel, sir. Have you asked him?”

“Thank you. I see… hmmm… the dates do reinforce our current hypothesis. No.”

“Yes, they do. She is most likely the conduit and given her current location is awaiting another drop. I have already directed a reinforcement of the vigilance on her. It’s already Tuesday. He leaves the clinic early on Thursdays. You are in London and free this Thursday.”

“Hmm. Can we move in two weeks then? Liaise with the Czechs please.” A nodded. “About tomorrow, do we have the analysis of the drone footage yet? I’m still unsure about the exits Rivers has suggested for Scott. …”

“We do, sir and he is realigning the potential exit routes accordingly. They should be ready in another hour. Are you planning to order or are you cooking? I recommend home cooking as he has been largely subsisting on sandwiches and the takeaway you shared for the last few months.”

“Could you review the exits before communicating them to _Mr. Scott_   _,_ please? And when you speak to Scott, do reiterate the necessity of following the plan as closely as possible,” Mycroft sighed. Sherlock’s tendency to deviate from plans and plunge into danger constantly worried Mycroft. He also regularly failed to communicate his own plans or changes thereof. Sometimes he wondered if having John around had made his brother even more heedless than before.

“Yes, sir. Here are the notes you requested from the ministry of foreign trade. They are expecting you at twelve. Do you want to meet him at the surgery?”

“…”

And so it went.

*****

Mycroft knew why he was procrastinating. So far their _encounters,_ outside of “work” had all been just sexual. They were never planned beforehand, not even a courtesy call to ask if John would be free. He knew when John would be free and at home for the evening and if those times coincided with his evenings in London free of work and social obligations, then he simply dropped in. So far, John hadn’t questioned it or asked to change it. Even the few times when they had time to _linger_ together was never spent talking. Their ‘companionable silence’ had ironically become a constant companion. What A was suggesting, and he was seriously considering, would be a _date_. A planned meeting with a social construct, an invitation (that John could potentially refuse), which would give _this_ a label, make it more than what it was. Would John be fine with that?

And then there was the whole part about letting someone into his home. He truly wanted John in his home. But would John _see_ what Mycroft wanted him to? Would he truly _step in_? What if, after seeing it, John retreated back to the periphery?

*****

It was late Wednesday afternoon when he finally texted John.

_Dinner tomorrow. My place? –MH_

John had replied with a simple ‘ _Sure_ ’ and Mycroft had left his phone screen unlocked for A to see instead of telling her.

In spite of himself and the pressures at work, which weren’t any different than the usual to be honest (except that now it was his brother in the field and it actually terrified him and made him feel guilty, so much so that he had stopped visiting his parents), Mycroft found himself planning the next evening in parallel. By the time he left office on Wednesday he had mailed A the shopping list and the time. Sherlock’s operation the next day wasn’t that complicated or dangerous, relatively speaking, and they had far better  for this one than the last four. John would be picked up directly from surgery. He didn’t want to lose a minute of his time with John. He smiled as he recalled A’s comment the first time he had cooked for the two of them. _Martha Stewart meets Nigella Lawson,_ she had said. A wasn’t finicky (no field agent could afford to be) but she was a ruthless critic. He hoped that his cooking would impress John too, and seduce him further.

He had been sleeping for two hours and twenty-seven minutes when A buzzed him. Her voice held no inflection but he knew it was bad. He was dressed and back at his office in fourteen minutes.

She updated him in her steady voice, “Scott went in ahead of schedule, sir. There was no way we could have stopped him. We couldn’t even communicate the revised exits. And he hadn’t yet confirmed whether he received the previous ones. He went underground very shortly after our last message and he was supposed to contact us again. We haven’t heard from or about him at all except some signs that he has gone _in_. The intelligence on ground is nil. There is no trace.”

Mycroft hoped the last was good news. If his people couldn’t trace Sherlock then there was a possibility that the enemy or an equivalent couldn’t either. There were other possibilities of course and he was too pragmatic to ignore them. He had always known that Sherlock’s safe return to London was far from a given.

He made a call to his contact in the local intelligence and called in a favour. They wouldn’t know, of course, that it wasn’t any other operative in the field but rather his brother. But they wouldn’t ever refuse. Such give and take was common in his line of work, it was their currency and he had learnt very early in his career to keep the books always tipped in England’s favour.

Knowing A would let him know should he be required, he forced himself to put aside his anxiety and sat down at his desk and began his day. In three days he had a meeting with the Americans over the Sudanese situation and he pored on the reports for that. Fretting over Sherlock’s absence wouldn’t do him any good. He had dropped off the radar before and his tendency to ignore plans would never change. But it had already been more than twenty-four hours since the last contact with Sherlock, and Mycroft’s anxiety, although pushed away, lingered in the background.

Outwardly he proceeded calmly to all his work commitments and as per schedule but A knew that he was frantic. By lunch, he had detoured via the door to Rivers’ room thrice supposedly on his way to various meetings and had twice asked for A’s presence in his room for almost trivial reasons. There was no reassurance from either and so it was with a troubled mind that he went to meet his late afternoon appointment. It was just after five when he emerged from the meeting to see A waiting by his car. Years of companionship told him there was some development.

Rivers’ told him that their contact had helped them pick a trace. A feeble one but it was still warm. He refused to budge from Rivers’ room after that. The floor was soon half empty (it never was deserted). A quietly slipped out from the office for a few minutes. Mycroft noticed it but she ignored his querying glance. Soon they figured out that Sherlock had possibly been captured, and probably by the ‘wrong’ side. That part of the world had too many ‘sides’ and the only thing common to all of them was a hatred for ‘white people’ and a desire to capture them either for leverage or ‘revenge’.

It was past eight at night when they could confirm all the details. The faction responsible was a fairly new one and was rumoured to have a ‘prison’ in the vicinity and it was almost certain that that’s where the elusive _Mr. Scott_ was being lodged now. The good news was that their quarry had not yet been alerted. The bad news was that no one knew exactly where the prison was, what the faction stood for and hence, how, if at all, Sherlock could be extracted from it.

There wasn’t much to be done for the time being till they could gather more information on all of these. Mycroft looked up to see A looking at him.

“Sir, your dinner appointment is awaiting you.”

He would have groaned in realisation but for almost a lifetime of training. He quickly went into his chamber followed by the diligent A, who closed the door after them.

“Dr. Watson has been driven to your residence, sir. He has been apprised of the delay in your arrival,” she forestalled him. Mycroft almost smiled. What the Holmes brothers did to the world, A did to him. She made him feel totally predictable and stupid. “There is an order of a three course meal from your club resting in your car. I do feel however, that it may not be required.” Her mysterious smile reappeared briefly but her voice was sombre and caring as she continued, “Go home, Mycroft. There’s nothing to be done at the moment.”

“But of course, my dear. I will see you in the morning.”

Mycroft mulled over A’s words. He presented an omniscient front to everyone. In truth it was A, stuck to her hand-held device presiding over a network they had built together over years, who deserved the label. Out of sheer habit, he hated to seem clueless even to her and so hadn’t asked what she meant. As usual, she knew it but hadn’t thought to apprise him. Of course it was possible that in spite of being used to odd hours due to Sherlock, John would choose to return to Baker St. Mycroft wouldn’t reach home anytime before a quarter past nine. He himself hardly had an appetite. So yes, the meal A ordered would be superfluous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had feedback from Gem on this one. We went back and forth on what was happening.  
> My plot outline was: I think the next step in their relationship would be when Mycroft decides to invite John home. The reason for the delay is that Sherlock has been missing.   
> Gem wondered whether we should have Magnussen or Moriarty back again. I'm terrible at writing villains so haven't decided yet. My actively considered options are either, both and neither. yeah I know I'm terrific at decision making :D.
> 
> If i do get them in this then as you can read in the sketches- Mary and Moran will be separate people.
> 
> So what do you all think?  
> I know so far as the romance goes this is slow burn but hopefully its not boring you out of your mind.
> 
> Let me know what you like and dislike please. i like either comments cos it is all encouraging.  
> Thanks again to all of you for sticking through


	13. At Mycroft's place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week, dear n_a pointed out some of their (sorry n_a that i have never asked how i shd be addressing you) pet peeves with JW/MH fics that occur during SH's 'absence'. All of them are my pet peeves as well (it always happens with n_a)! I hope I've addressed some of them and hopefully this fic won't beget any irritation on those counts. (Cmon people there are indeed fics where you go aaargh) But I cannot be sure that I will succeed.  
> However, I do realise that I can put down some notes on my head canon. This way if my story isn't exactly portraying it - you lovely people can alert me. You will help me out won't you? Please.  
> I've listed points from my head canon at the end and shall now proceed to the chapter so that your pleasure is no longer delayed.  
> Thanks and see you all.

John hadn’t even reacted as the black car sidled along the pavement. It had been a surprisingly _good_ day at the A &E, uneventful but busy, filled with only minor emergencies, and hence good. He was looking forward to the evening. They had never planned their time together. Somehow Mycroft knew when he would be free. They had never asked each other. But lately, Mycroft would drop a word during the evening about being _away for sometime_. That meant John wouldn’t wait for him. Not that he really planned to (or so he told himself). But it was endearingly courteous.

But now he had an invitation to Mycroft’s home. It had been surprising to receive it. Of course the man had to live somewhere. But John had never bothered to wonder and now he was a bit ashamed of himself. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Never again would he dismiss a Holmes as a machine, he thought regretfully. By the time he had thought to ask for the address yesterday, he had gotten too busy and then it had just slipped his mind. Of course Mycroft bloody Holmes would simply send a car without so much as a by your leave, he thought with fond exasperation. Just as he had brought the grocery a few weeks back. Would it kill the man to just ask? John sighed as he slid onto the seat. There was no Anthea today so he simply laid his head on the rest closed his eyes and stretched his legs. God! He was tired. Sherlock would have had to fold his legs no matter the car.

 It may not be a coincidence either. The chauffeur got down as John opened his car door. “If you will follow me please, Dr. Watson.” He said, then proceeded to open the front door and went up a flight of stairs. The floor had a locked entry off the stair landing. The chauffeur opened this first and then the entry to a flat, ushered John in and closed the door behind him. “Mr. Holmes sends his apologies, sir. He has been delayed due to work. He has requested that you make yourself comfortable in the mean time. You will find the drinks cabinet in the living room, behind the sofa.” He then placed the keys on a hook behind the door.

It was a testament to John’s acquired immunity to the absurd that he merely smiled and nodded as the man tipped his head and exited. His speech bore a trace of Caribbean accent and he was built more like a bodyguard than a chauffeur. It was also no longer surprising to him that any and every message from Mycroft was perhaps conveyed without the possibility of being overheard. Maybe his neighbours didn’t even know his name or maybe they all knew each other and never acknowledged being neighbours for security reasons. Of course, given that there had been only the one door the ‘flat’ must cover the entire floor. All this occurred to him without conscious effort.

So, John’s first cognisant thought as he turned to step into Mycroft’s home was – _‘Of course the man has a white sofa. He has possibly never spilled anything in his life’_. He next told himself that he wasn’t really disappointed. No, of course not. Grown men did not fret when their… friends (?) were late. And a drink would be very welcome. But he stopped abruptly. The living room was very _Mycroft_. White, the softest greys, and chrome, plush fabrics instead of comfy leather, no easy to maintain stuff anywhere. There wasn’t a speck of dust and everything seemed to be in its exact place. The only colour, if it could be called that, was the carpet, shimmery silver that looked rather plush.

The room reminded John of a home décor catalogue. An upmarket one perhaps, but nevertheless a sterile- no not sterile- it was... it was cold and pretentious, a facade, a ‘to be showed-off’ room. He was seized by restlessness and in a fit of unreasoned rebellion (a decidedly un-John reaction) he decided not to sit on that sofa or even in that room. He strode to the drinks cabinet, retrieved a glass and poured a double in it, defiantly ignoring the label (it was a well aged Laphroaig, but no he was not reading). He almost gave in to the petty desire of using the wrong glass but realised it would be counter productive. After all Mycroft possibly had scientifically designed glasses to concentrate the aroma and flavour of each drink. He wasn’t sure why he was so impatient with the room but being a simple man he refused to analyse and simply walked out of the room in search of... somewhere else.

He was halfway across the hallway when he registered the change. He no longer felt his earlier impatience. The space around him now made him want to linger. A glance around told him why.

This was an exact opposite of the living room. It was warm, comfortable, welcoming. It was still not small but it wasn’t the huge pretentious space that the living room had been. Shaking his head at himself he decided that the kitchen and dining room were surely not off limits and he could sit there without intruding into Mycroft’s privacy or killing his earlier good mood.

Just after seven, John realised that he was fidgeting. He had had his drink, and looked about him and seen every inch of the dining room and the hardwood table that could seat no more than six. It was all very tidy, of course, spic and span and everything in its proper place. The room was spacious without being too large. The furniture and wall decorations were beautiful but not ostentatious, it was neither spare nor cluttered, there was a delicious balance. The china cabinet had some lovely pieces that were perhaps expensive but not snobbish. In a rush of confusion all of it suddenly reminded him of Mycroft and John wasn’t sure why he had shifted his opinion. Surely the outer room was more like the man? Wasn’t it? He didn’t want to dwell on his dichotomous thoughts and decided to check the kitchen. If he could figure out what Mycroft had planned for dinner he would set the table, chill the wine or some such thing. John Watson could be presumptuous too.

There was a wooden breakfast table with two chairs standing by a window. John recalled Sherlock’s constant taunts regarding Mycroft’s weight and fondness for sweets. Did Mycroft like toasted muffins for breakfast? He smiled at that thought and turned to the fridge. It was huge and it was stuffed!

Mycroft had possibly planned on cooking for him. John was overwhelmed by that realisation. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had planned a meal for him. After his return, none of his dates had progressed so far and then… he had stopped dating.

Just how many courses had the man planned to cook? Or was this for the whole week? There were tiny vol-au-vent cases, woodcock already prepared and marinated, a crisper full of vegetables some of which John had never cooked with, three types of mushrooms, a tub of what he suspected was black peas, pork chops, lamb kidneys, and wine in the chiller. The freezer held a gourmet ice-cream and a gelato along with assorted frozen berries, yoghurt, et al. (no severed heads or organs). He decided that there could be more than one meal here because no matter how elaborately he imagined not everything ‘matched’ in his head. In a heart-beat he decided to cook! Yes, he would.

Umm ok so what to cook. Hell, even when Sherlock had been… there, he regularly had to forage in the kitchen and fridge for edible stuff. He would keep it simple. He just hoped the oven was easy to use.

He switched on the oven to pre-heat it. It was modern and easy to use, but the novelty didn’t end there. It was clean and empty! He unwrapped the cling film from the woodcock, fetched some vegetables he recognised along with some butter and set to work. Soon the meal was in the oven and John was setting the timer on it. He decided to brave the front room again for another drink then, a smaller one. The meal would take no more than twenty minutes to cook but he did need to baste it. Forty minutes later John was ensconced in a dining room chair, confident that the bird and veggies had cooked beautifully. An empty glass was on one side and he was reading a surprisingly engrossing text on the evolution of languages that he had found in the kitchen. It had seemed out of place but it did have a bookmark tucked into one of the pages. He had decided that he would wait till nine for Mycroft and then eat, clean up and leave.

He wished he had a better seat though. The dining chairs weren’t meant for sprawling and his natural reticence prevented him from exploring further. At least the book was keeping him from over thinking his actions.

He was planning to have his dinner, leave a note and call a cab (in that order) when his phone buzzed.

_Hope I am not too late. Leaving work now. Apologies. –MH_

Two texts in a row— John isn’t sure whether to be flattered or alarmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few points from my head canon:  
> 1) There is no slash between Sherlock and John. It is very possible that John loved Sherlock but he doesn't realise it himself.  
> 2) Mycroft fell for John in their very first meeting. Sherlock knows his brother covets John. Exactly how this attraction appears to Sherlock and how he reacts to it, I choose to depict differently in different stories :D  
> 3) What Mycroft suspects on John's behalf is definitely unrequited by Sherlock. Mycroft knows this. Anthea knows this.  
> 4) Anthea is not just MH's PA but almost his extension. She is his protege, who is now his equal. MH sometimes believes her even more powerful than himself and more dangerous since no one suspects it. Anthea and Mycroft are best friends and have almost no secrets between them (to the extent that two spies and politically powerful people can share secrets).  
> 5) Mycroft is experienced, but his sexual encounters so far have all been about power or obligation (very 00).  
> 6) Mycroft has always believed that he is not attractive physically. He also believes that Sherlock is very attractive and that given a choice anyone would rather lust after or love his brother.  
> 7) Anthea is a very good friend and believes that MH is a softie for people he loves especially Sherlock. Once she realises that MH is attracted to JW she keeps pushing him to do something about it.  
> 8) Since, MH realises that JW is so good for his brother he keeps smoothening their path by doing things in the background such as ensuring that SH is shielded from official wrath in the Adler episode or that JW is allowed to keep his illegal weapon etc.  
> 9) In spite of his own foolish mistakes with Moriarty, Mycroft had not wanted Sherlock to be sacrificed. he also was dead against the whole pretend-to-die plan.  
> Now we come to the parts that are relevant to this story specifically.  
> 9) Post-Rb, MH stays away from JW but is alarmed at his deteriorating condition and so entices him with work to clear Sherlock and Greg's names. There is a suspicion that he may also have arranged John's work in the A&E deptt. of a major hospital.  
> 10) Their first encounter is unplanned. If you recall it was John who escalated it. In fact Mycroft was a bit overwhelmed by it. (Chapters 2 and 3) He had hoped it would be a one-off but he couldn't keep away. So we can and will definitely 'blame' him for the second and all subsequent encounters. It was perhaps a bit not good that he not only continued but did so despite knowing John's love for SH (unrequited or otherwise)  
> 11) Anthea likes and approves of John for her friend. She also believes that for once MH can have a healthy relationship if he will only give it a chance.
> 
> I hope that clears up things a bit. If any of these are contrary to your head canon- apologies. I cannot seem to shake these off for this fic. I will try and portray this and hopefully succeed (perhaps).
> 
> I ship Johnlock all the time cos their chemistry both in ACD books and BBC Sherlock is "augdacjr usgfuyrgvw reiugvyei ehfoiuh ghhivyegrf erfv" if you get my meaning. Or perhaps because I already shipped it I was looking for it in the series.
> 
> On the other hand I have been rather intrigued by Mycroft cos even Doyle's Sherlock agrees that he is smarter and powerful. The few glimpses we had of him there were rather tantalising to me (sorry ;-D) in spite of the rather portly portrayal. I later rather happily realised that there are others fascinated by him just as I was and had even written out or filmed their head canons (yaayyy).
> 
> AND then that kidnapped-to-an-empty-warehouse scene on BBC happened and boom a new slash arrived for me! I mean c'mon its got all the workings of a classic millsandboon or harlequin or whatever your poison was as a teen! a la "desert sheikh defiant bride". (I now consider almost all of those at least dub-con if not downright non-con and try to steer my nieces away cos I think reading about Jane Eyre and Scarlett O'Hara would be far better but i'll save that whole rant for some other time)
> 
> And with this I have come back full circle to writing notes longer than my chapters :D:D:D:D
> 
> Thanks so much for indulging my idiotic self by reading all this nonsense that I cannot help produce.  
> Hope you are having a wonderful week!
> 
> Love and hugs. Drop a note so i know whats happening please.


	14. Balance and control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I told you all what my head canon was in the previous instalment. Luckily it was also the point where I was seeing a certain change in John's outlook to his relationship with Mycroft and hopefully this chapter will bring it out a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for my dear friend lavengro. I met her through our mutual love of Bertie/Jeeves right here on AO3. She also introduced me to the whole wonderful world of Raffles and Bunny. It has been marvellous following her Jooster fic ['Cat's Tail'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3727465/chapters/8259694). She recently wrote two chapters of it back to back and that inspired me to start posting again. 
> 
> Hope you all like this chapter. Do drop a note to say good, bad, ugly or simply hi. I'll be waiting

The lights had been switched on when Mycroft finally arrived; he was carrying boxes of food from his club as a substitute. He found the living room surprisingly unoccupied. Surprising because the doctor was always so unassuming and persevered in notions of privacy and boundaries in spite of spending eighteen months with Sherlock. Then his nose caught the delicious aroma of fresh cooking as he ventured further. The sight at his table stole his breath. John was sitting at the dining table, reading, his cheek propped on his right hand. He was absently fiddling with his phone with his left hand; across him the table was set for two. It looked like… home, someone waiting for his… partner? Yes, _waiting for his partner_ , to return from work and share a meal. It was a strangely domestic scene that he was loath to disturb. He made a soft noise to alert John. John raised his head and turned slightly, his answering smile left Mycroft craving inside. He plastered on his most neutral smile.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting. I will have the dinner out in a few minutes.” He gestured to the boxes in his hands, simultaneously raising an eyebrow towards the kitchen. It was an expression that only Mycroft could have pulled off John thought, as he stretched up. A query and an offer rolled in one.

John shook his head and asked, “Will that keep? I mean in the fridge for tomorrow or something?” Mycroft raised his other brow in query. “I’ve already cooked,” John answered.

“I see. I must doubly apologise then. I have been a terrible host, not only have I kept you waiting alone but made you cook the dinner as well.” He glanced towards the kitchen then back and John and said, “I had planned to cook for you.”

“I realised.”

“You should have at least let me help set the table. And to your earlier question— yes, this will keep.”

“In that case why don’t you freshen up while I get the food? Please.”

At that gentle command, Mycroft left the boxes on the table and retreated to his room. John removed the boxes from the bag and put them as they were in the fridge, without a peek. He served up two plates of his simpler fare instead. _Yep, the bird was done beautifully_ even if he did say so himself. And the veggies were done just right too. He got the rest of the food on the table. He selected one of the red wines from the chiller and poured two goblets. He hoped it was the right accompaniment but he wasn’t too bothered. He had never liked white wine.

Mycroft was prompt in his return. He had simply removed his jacket and tie. His waistcoat was still buttoned up though the top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his cuffs were rolled up, meticulously. John couldn’t help smiling to himself. Did the man have a measuring tape tucked in somewhere along with a mobile iron? Even now there were no untidy creases and not a hair was out of place.

Mycroft sat down and gave an appreciative glance at the plate and practically beamed at him. "This looks wonderful!" he complimented.

However, John detected the hidden weariness in his frame. It was similar to Sherlock’s defiance against bodily limitations, and he found it rather endearing. The man was masking a bad day at work. What sort of stress did he have to endure? Did it frequently become personally threatening as it had done the other day? John suspected it did, may be not physically threatening but definitely and frequently personal. What had it been today— a tussle with a foreign government or a matter of internal security?

Both of them ate quietly, their company needing no words. Neither spoke unless necessary. When Mycroft offered to refill his goblet John covered it with his palm and shook his head in refusal. “I’ve already had a couple of drinks earlier. Would you like another helping of the vegetables?”

“No, thank you, John... This is a delicious meal.” Mycroft said it like he meant it and a quiet stole over John. It was a calming sense of having tended to someone under his care . John acknowledged to himself that he needed to be needed . He liked taking care of people and if this aspect of their relationship persisted beyond this evening, even infrequently, he wouldn’t balk. He wanted to walk around the table to physically soothe Mycroft and it was with difficulty that he stopped himself. And yet, he knew that from this day onwards their relationship would change. He had realised how often it had been Mycroft protecting him (even from himself) in the last few months. He had been hurting from his loss but then Mycroft had as well. He was now resolved to restore the balance.

Mycroft was still amazed by John’s actions and his own reaction to it. No one had ever done something for him so selflessly. It was the one aspect of John Watson that constantly surprised him. The domestic scene of John comfortable in his home had caught him unawares. There was a small tight knot lodged painfully in his chest, and it was impossible to stop replaying the scene. He found himself fantasising that John would want this again, want this for… for a long time, with Mycroft.

Mycroft hadn’t been lying when he said the food was delicious. He had planned a far more sophisticated and seductive meal. He was no stranger to seduction by food, wine and ambience; had been on both sides of it. But he recognised that they merely provided the setting, a valuation of the need, so to say. And so it would have been today. It was always the gesture that held far greater appeal than the food itself. But their meal now was one of companionship, caretaking, caring… well that would be too much of a stretch and wishful thinking… but it surely wasn’t seduction. There was a scramble of hopes and wishes running riot in his mind (and heart).

He wished he wasn’t so tired today. He hoped Sherlock would be safe. He wished he could let go and show John what exactly he felt and reciprocate what he had received today. He hoped that, even if it was just for an evening, he could be sure that John would always look at him this way. The day had been exhausting and he had an unfamiliar urge to seek solace with someone else. Even though the day had been pretty much his norm, albeit with his dear brother missing in action and possibly in the hands of an unknown enemy not bound by Geneva conventions. Sherlock and his shenanigans always drained him. Sherlock was his one weakness. (Of course A was the other but no one knew that) or perhaps it was the sub-conscious acknowledgement that he was perhaps taking advantage of John’s vulnerability. That this had begun and continued thus far because John was hurting. All through the meal a second stream of thought had nagged at him, an undercurrent that he had studiously ignored till date.

Was John simply seeking a substitute for Sherlock? Did he even want _this_ or want to do any of it with Mycroft? That surprisingly hurt and he felt bitter resentment welling up. He felt a childish urge to wipe Sherlock from John’s mind, if only for one night. Partly miffed by Sherlock’s headstrong ways that had gotten him into danger once again, partly torn by impotent jealousy. He wished the Doctor would see him as simply him, not as a substitute. He was being unreasonable and foolish, but he couldn’t stop wishing it. His cautious brain balked at it and warned him that he would once again end up drowning himself in John Watson for the night, while his conscience pricked him that he too was using John to slake his lust, to forget everything and everyone, including Sherlock’s predicament and himself. He had never felt so tired physically or so emotionally anxious. If only… For a moment his eyes flicked up to see John. So near and yet…!

After the meal they worked in companionable silence to clear the table and wash the dishes. The kitchen itself had already been returned to its pristine condition and Mycroft felt guilty all over again that his attempt to entertain John at his home had been for nought. John declined dessert or aperitifs and Mycroft had never felt so wrong footed. He was used to their encounters so far being initiated and for a large part being directed by himself. From the beginning, it had been he who had asked, who had scheduled, who had pushed. John had always seemed to go along with it all. Right from the beginning.

_Really? His brain queried again. Recall the first encounter when he immediately took charge and made you forget all reason? Forget your fraternal loyalty?_

Tamping down on his pesky grey matter, he tried to ground himself and regain control as he meticulously wiped his hands on the towel and followed it by the moisturiser next to the hand-wash. Not stalling. Definitely not. But cold damp hands did not lead to successful seductions and rough dry fingers were a definite no-no in snobbish diplomatic circles. His eyes fell on the oven door that had been deliberately left partially open to cool down. He was sure that if he checked there would be a deodoriser placed in the middle rack. He closed his eyes as the visuals assaulted him again—John accepting his delay as unremarkable; John allowing him his silence uncomplainingly; John sitting at the table, lost reading, empty tumbler to the side, as if he belonged; but most of all, John taking charge of the dinner, cooking and cleaning as if he did it everyday. The usually unassuming doctor who let Sherlock run rough shod over him and who let Mycroft direct if and when and how they would ‘meet’ had presumed to cook and clean in Mycroft’s home as if it were his right. No one had ever taken charge that way. Mycroft had never allowed it. He took a deep breath and turned around.

John simply stood near the doorway with his soft understanding eyes, waiting for him to finish, so Mycroft simply led the way to his bedroom. This part at least he wouldn’t fail in.


	15. Have I instead promised a pound of flesh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft needs to get back into his role as the initiator and controller so he is planning a seduction. He is also battling his guilt about Sherlock. John on the other hand had enjoyed taking charge of the dinner and being presumptuous with the obnoxiously controlled Mycroft Holmes and was riding the high and plotting on how to continue in the same vein.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fortunately Gem provided a very generously detailed outline for the second half (yeah this has smut). It is very definitely the last of what she could spare time for (boohoo). Her contribution is beautiful as usual. Thanks to her again for showing faith in a newbie, I hope I have done her contributions justice in fleshing them out.

Mycroft grabbed his phone on the way and surreptitiously checked for any messages. He sent A his standard message consisting of exactly one character which had come to mean between them a myriad of things such as— _What is the current status? I’m ok. Is everything alright? Do you need me there? Call as soon as there is any change? Et al._ He knew that in spite of the speed of his actions John would have noticed. But he chose to ignore it. Much as his body was calling for John, his mind refused to easily switch off. He told himself that it wasn’t just because it was Sherlock. Habit wasn’t easy to break either and he was sure that A would have been alarmed had he not done so.

The flat did occupy the entire floor and Mycroft walked across a small passage and opened the door to a spacious room. He desperately wanted John to like it. To be, not impressed, but … like it. John entered in his usual way, his focus more on the person than the room. He turned to shut the door and stepped further in.

The meal and tidying had seemed so companionable. He had almost forgotten that he was with Mycroft Holmes who never switched off... John felt a twinge of disappointment and immediately scolded himself for being childish. The man had checked his phone very discreetly and had sent only a very short message. It was far better than the various times John had dumped his dates thanks to Sherlock’s messages. He knew better than to take it personally. Mycroft was surely revisiting the stress at work. He rarely let his calm slip but he had looked particularly tired and again seemed on the edge now. John was getting better at reading him and though he wanted to reach out and soothe him, once again he held back to fathom what Mycroft truly needed.

Perhaps a week or so before, John would have let the next part play as Mycroft directed. He would have been grateful for the company, thankful that he did not have to sit through an evening alone and empty, amazed that this intelligent man was setting aside his own mourning or simply dazed by the physical cravings of his own body. Not today. John Watson had changed his mind. He would no longer be passively allowing Mycroft to write their encounters within his dictates. Even during his time in the army, his officers and peers had known that John would always put duty first and depended on his unquestioning loyalty. But they also knew that he would never go against his moral code, and that he would be stubborn enough if he deemed something worth fighting for. It had cost him his army and medical career when he had stubbornly refused to abandon his wounded mates, and it had cost him a medal for his bravery because he had done so against the explicit orders of his bastard CO. It was way past time that John became himself again.

They stripped together in silence. Mycroft hung his clothes daintily in the dresser or the laundry hamper and turned back. He dragged an impossibly slow gaze up John’s naked body. From his toes, up his slightly parted legs, his groin, his half hardened cock, his hands at his sides, goose bumps rising along his arms, dipping at his navel, heating at his nipples, licking at his shoulders, skimming his scar, flaring at his throat as John swallowed, lingering on his lips, tracing his jaw, slipping to his ear, Mycroft’s gaze finally settled on John’s eyes.

A soft shiver escaped John, his eyes already blown and yet predatory. Slowly and deliberately Mycroft stepped into John’s space, not yet touching. John angled his head up, unable to tear his eyes from the smoky blue gaze. He could feel the heat radiating off Mycroft’s body, the gaze holding him in thrall. He felt himself sway forward, tipping on his toes. Mycroft caught him and brought his body flush with John’s. John could feel the tension in Mycroft. He wasn’t sure what had changed between dinner and now, but he couldn’t bear it, he refused to revert to status quo, and reached for Mycroft, latching on to his lips. Mycroft met John open mouthed and John felt a surge of passion as Mycroft’s tongue swept into his mouth. They had never been coy with each other and it had been clear that they were equal in experience. So their encounters had always been heated. But today, John was determined that he would make this ‘ _the hottest sex Mycroft Holmes had ever had_ ’.

Both were indulging themselves, their tongues mapping every secret of the other’s mouth, tempting, teasing, coaxing, promising, inviting, enticing. The moans elicited fuelled them further. Mycroft set out to take charge sooner than later and dragged his mouth across John’s jaw. Tongue, lips and teeth chasing the rough texture of the end of the day stubble, breathing in John’s scents, tasting him. Holding tight with his left hand, his right hand dipped to John’s arse, pulling him close kneading it lovingly.

“I would like to be inside you tonight,” he declared.

Mycroft’s words caught John. Mycroft had never verbalised his needs. Their encounters were usually silent, save for the sounds their mutual touch elicited. Moreover, Mycroft never _asked_. The normally cool and contained man always controlled himself in bed too. He made it very clear that he desired John physically but that’s where it stopped. He was forever seeing to John first, his needs, his desires, never letting go fully, never demanding. For the first time, Mycroft had asked for something specific. It made John feel that he too could ask for more in turn because after a long time John wanted that extra bit. Recalling his promise to be more himself he simply said, “Sure. But I get to suck you before.”

Mycroft gave a tiny shiver even as he latched his mouth to John’s sturdy shoulder. The skilled negotiator wondered who was fucking whom. He could not deny that making demands and receiving them in turn was indeed an aphrodisiac. Once again John Watson had changed the rules and once again Mycroft liked them. The words themselves were enough to take him to the edge and he sucked a dark spot on John’s shoulder to anchor himself. It was so arousing to hear them in John’s voice. With some effort, he reminded himself of his earlier promise to seduce John.

He hooked his fingers under John’s left knee and hitched his leg up, wrapping it around his hip. He caressed the back of John’s thigh. John loved to be touched there. He then brought his fingers to his mouth sucking noisily. John stared at his mouth and then held on tighter, anchoring himself. Mycroft wet his fingers thoroughly and put his fingers directly between John’s cleft, circling his opening. John moaned in wanton enjoyment. Drawing just a little away he looked into Mycroft’s face. Eyes scrunched, Mycroft had an intensely fierce look of concentration as he massaged John’s opening, teasingly pushing just the tip in.

John’s stance left him barely balanced and open, and yet Mycroft sensed that not one thing that John was doing was meted out without being measured and honed for maximum impact. He was damned sure that moan had been deliberate. His heart lurched and he felt his defences crumbling. He straightened his face determinedly and opened his eyes to look into those curious blue ones and then John fired another salvo. He licked his dry and perpetually chapped lips and demanded, “Take me to bed.”

John’s tone was laced with demand and need. It both soothed and stirred him and Mycroft responded by hefting John up and hitching his other leg as well. He shuffled carefully the few steps to his bed, climbing on to it on his knees, John clinging to him like a limpet, and slowly dragging their collective heft to the centre. John loosened his hold to lie back but kept his arms and legs wrapped around Mycroft as Mycroft unseeingly dragged a pillow beneath John’s neck. Mycroft bent over in John’s embrace, straightening his legs and settling over him, hands cradling John’s head, supporting himself on elbows.

John felt dexterous thumbs drawing lazy circles at his temples as he littered Mycroft’s jaw with soft, wet kisses, trailing them all the way to his ear, nibbling at his lobe, sucking at it softly, and drawing out soft sounds of arousal. John tightened his legs and thrust up. He nuzzled the arch of Mycroft’s neck, breathing softly and rubbing his lips on the skin. Mycroft groaned and sought John’s mouth, plunging again and again into its sweetness.

It was a long time before Mycroft gave a final lick to his lower lip and gently but firmly disengaged himself from John’s limbs and hefted himself up. John looked delicious, a sweet smug smile stealing on his features as he opened his eyes to look at Mycroft. The jealousy and pain and inadequacy faded away. He knew without doubt that here and now it was just the two of them.

Mycroft reached across and slid open the bedside table. He was back with a condom and a bottle of lube. John reached up and caressed his cheek, tracing his eyebrows with his fingertips. Mycroft gave a fond shake of his head as with a shy smile he pumped a generous amount on his fingers. He looked up again, a query in his eyes. John spread his knees further in invitation. Mycroft ducked his head and reached down. He couldn’t look into John’s face, the roles of the seducer and the seduced were obliterated.

He parted John’s butt cheeks with gentle but eager fingertips and smoothed them into the hot crease of John’s arse. He mapped the space almost reverently with all four of his fingers, spreading the lubricant liberally and deliberately against John. John watched him silently, though his eyes were dark and his mouth was quirked. He stared at Mycroft, waiting until Mycroft stopped his furtive glances and finally got enough courage to return the soldier’s steady gaze, and then the planes of John’s face shifted. He arched an eyebrow becoming predatory and impatient as he lifted his hips in a wordless but very deliberate order— an order that Mycroft felt himself obeying without hesitation or question. He slipped the tip of his middle finger to the puckered clench of skin that John rubbed against him with a controlled rock of his hips.

“Pull my hips higher,” John demanded roughly. “Push them up and hold them there.”

Mycroft nodded and scuttled forward. He used his free hand to heave John’s arse higher and rested it on his own knees and thighs, exposing John more to his gaze and pressing John’s knees to his chest and shoulders. John was nimble but solid and he grinned slowly at Mycroft with a devilish glint in his eyes.

“Look at what you’re doing,” came the next teasing command.

Dropping his gaze from John’s face he returned to his task, stroking and petting and rubbing at John with the moist and slicked noise of lubricated flesh against flesh. That really wasn’t any better. The sight of his fingers caressing John— or perhaps it was where John’s flesh teased his fingers— made his breath stutter. When Mycroft let his hips dip a little lower, John nudged him with his foot and Mycroft grunted as he hitched them back into place. John reached down to stroke himself lazily and Mycroft almost gave up. Another few strokes and then John parted his own buttocks with another impatient look that Mycroft both revelled in and wanted to wipe off. Mycroft realised to his own secret delight that, to use popular parlance, he had found himself a very bossy bottom.

“Stop teasing me,” John told Mycroft with a laboured breath after what seemed like agonising minutes had gone by. “Go ahead. I can take a finger now.”

The brat! Mycroft was tempted to spank Captain Watson.

“Are you quite sure?” Mycroft asked in reply, sure that John had been properly prepared but wanting to tease some more.

John shifted in an odd writhe closer to Mycroft and then grabbed Mycroft’s wrist with a steely and hot grip, “Take it slow, but go deep. Go to the second knuckle.”

John gazed up at him as he urged Mycroft’s slicked, slender and slightly trembling finger into himself. Mycroft’s finger breached him steadily, the muscles fluttering and squeezing around his fingertip as they relaxed enough to allow entry. John’s body was greedy. It latched firmly onto Mycroft’s finger making it difficult to move it for a few moments even with all the lubrication. Mycroft felt saliva pooling in his mouth. John exhaled roughly through his nose and tugged on Mycroft’s wrist.

“More.”

Mycroft slowly pressed deeper till his second knuckle eased through the clinging muscles. He waited again holding his breath almost staring where his finger breached John. “Breathe,” said John gently and Mycroft was startled enough to curl his finger in reflex. John moaned lowly and closed his eyes, savouring the sensation. _Bloody long fingers!_

“I’m good. Now.”

Mycroft pressed further and soon his finger was fully inside. He waited again. John breathed in and out. Then he gave the next set of his instructions.

“Rock it in and out of me – fuck me with it. Slowly. Touch my prostate, lightly, after the fifth thrust. And only then. All right?”

“Yes, John.” Hell! The man was pushy.

John squirmed and panted with growing pleasure as Mycroft did exactly as he was told, moving his slicked index finger in a slow, grinding rhythm that John ordered for him to pick up once he searched for and touched his prostate. John took him almost step by step on ‘how to please John Watson’. John nudged Mycroft with his foot when he wanted it faster, and then grabbed for Mycroft’s wrist again to slow the pace or pressure himself, rolling his hips, his skin flushed and gathering sweat.

“Another! Another… another finger. Now... To the second knuckle,” John demanded with an edge of desperation and a furrowed brow of agonised pleasure. “Ahhh! Yeah… now… now scissor your fingers a little. Right, now mix the two. Do it after the third or fourth thrust. Keep up the pace I set. Okay? – Take it firmer pushing in, but…but go back to the speed I like.”

Mycroft did exactly as he was told, his eyes flitting between John’s face and what his hand was doing. He was in awe of John’s confidence in knowing what to ask for, his ease at allowing this vulnerability, his complete control of the situation in spite of the vulnerability, and of course the fact that the man had lasted so long already. His mind was busy recording each instruction for future sessions, determined to have a repeat and determined to not require a single instruction then. All the while his body was busy recording and rejoicing in each and every sensation. John felt slick and hot and wonderfully tight. His face was a picture of ecstasy. He pulled out and then brought in his third finger, pushing in slowly, waiting until it was accepted to begin the rhythm again, picking up the pace and curling his fingers to touch John’s prostate at the frequency dictated as he worked his whole arm into the movement, rocking John against the bed and making John groan. John’s fingers scrambled for the sheets and then reached for Mycroft, gripping his shoulders, stroking his neck, and staring into his face with a grimace of pleasure. Mycroft moved faster without being told and John arched his head back, groaning loud.

“Yes! Yes. More…more…” John panted, moving his hips more and more, pushing himself down onto Mycroft’s fingers.

Mycroft wriggled his fingers into the flushed, stretched skin before him, John whimpered through his teeth and shuddered, going pliant yet taut with gathering desire. Mycroft worked him open steadily. Keeping up the pace John had set and spreading his fingers, but doing it his own way at the same time, using all his skill and insight to obey John’s demands. John was all but continuously moaning now and exceedingly hard. Mycroft twisted his fingers, keeping up the brushing of John’s prostate as he also rubbed against the stretched line of his hole, adding more lubricant. Mycroft drew it all out with excruciating consistency, losing himself to the act, to his own heightening desires, and to John’s, until John growled low.

“Plug me.”

Mycroft looked up so fast that his vision swam.

“I’m sure you have at least one toy, Mycroft.”

In a near daze Mycroft carefully eased his fingers out, slid open a bedside drawer and retrieved a medium sized one. Whimsically, he coated the plug and wondered if John was on a self-appointed mission to make Mycroft orgasm simply by issuing these commands. Slowly, with the same agonising care, he eased the lubed dildo into John’s gaping anus, his heart nearly stopping at that erotic scene, while John huffed out impatiently.

Once it was fully seated in John, Mycroft looked up to see John wearing a wicked smile. “I believe we had a deal,” he said slowly lowering his legs.

The wicked smile on his face promised Mycroft a repayment for all he had received so far, with a very very very generous interest. Knowing that he was already hard and ready to come simply from having fingered John, Mycroft turned around with some trepidation. He should have bought himself a cock-ring before he invited John Watson to his bed. He was breathing heavily and his mouth was dry. John gave him another smug smile and made him drink some water. He then very deliberately moved Mycroft onto the bed. And tugged till they were lying facing each other.

John’s eyes softened as he saw Mycroft’s heightened colour. His lips were parted. His breath roughened. He knew he would never have enough of Mycroft’s mouth. Every time he saw that slight overhang of the lower lip all he wanted was to bite it and suck it in. He couldn’t help kissing that mouth. It never gave anything away. Those lips obeyed every command of their owner. Not a single betraying twitch, or a smile passed them without Mycroft’s express permission. But here and now they were John’s to do as he pleased. They were parted and did nothing to resist his foray. They clung to his mouth and invited his tongue. They kissed till they could no more.

It would have to be enough for tonight. There was so much more he wanted. So with the plug sheathed inside him, John crouched over Mycroft’s body. He diligently kept their cocks away from any contact. He was sure neither would be able to resist if touched there. John kissed and laved his way all across and down Mycroft’s body, he nibbled at his earlobe, nuzzled behind, his teeth scraped the taut tendons of his neck, his tongue dragging hard on the carotid all the way down to that delicious dip at the base. He drew out tortured sounds from his partner and left pleasure and bruises in his wake, nipping his flesh, suckling his nipples, leaving hard and hot and wet kisses down his torso and stomach, stopping to dip his tongue into Mycroft’s navel and licking a zigzagging pattern over Mycroft’s hips and pelvis. His fingers were busy tracing patterns on Mycroft’s body, kneading his flesh, caressing it, seemingly praising it with his touch or perhaps memorising it on his palms. Mycroft bruised easily and John seemed to leave marks wherever he so much as touched. Mycroft knew by now that most of his lovers had found those marks appealing but never before had he thanked nature for it. John’s marks on his body weren’t just welcome, they were desired, they were needed, and he could have begged John for them.

But John did not want Mycroft to beg him even in bed. He wished for an equal and hoped that Mycroft would demand and request and tell him the way he was doing. John was level with Mycroft’s penis now. He pushed at Mycroft’s hip till Mycroft lay comfortably sprawled on his back, his penis cocked at an angle, rigid and heavy. He traced the shape of it with his gaze before he did it with his fingers. John touched him gently, barely putting any pressure, and then curled his entire hand around him, holding him firmly at the base.

As he opened his mouth, the first touch of John’s tongue was like a bolt of electricity. John lapped at the head, swirled at the fold of his foreskin , and then licked a wet, hot, hard path up and down the entire length of him. He faintly scraped it with his canines. John nuzzled the rough evenly trimmed hair in the crease breathing deeply and Mycroft shivered with that sound. And then after what seemed an interminable wait, John dipped in to suck at and then cradle Mycroft’s testicles with his mouth. He gently rolled first one and then the other in his mouth, laving it with his tongue.

Leisurely, taking his time and looking up at Mycroft with a twitch of his eyebrow. His pupils were blown wide and his body was still zinging from Mycroft’s ministrations. Plus, the stretch of the plug and it’s feel against his inner walls as he moved was keeping him in a pleasant buzz. But John’s attention and the movements of his tongue and mouth were sure and steady. John opened wide and bobbed his head, pulling Mycroft into his mouth greedily, and then sucking just a bit he let him slip gradually back out again, leaving a trail of saliva and pre-ejaculate on his cheek and jaw when the head of Mycroft’s penis slipped sideways. Mycroft wasn’t sure who moaned at that because soon John took Mycroft in completely and swallowed gagging only slightly but opening his throat to take Mycroft as deep as he could, coming back up for air with a gasp and a groan.

John kissed and nosed at Mycroft’s length, breathing against him, and then took him back into his mouth again. He kept the rhythm unhurried, merely building up to just slow back down again. John grunted in enjoyment, stroking and caressing Mycroft’s scrotum, pelvis, sides and his increasingly tense thighs. Mycroft’s feet were scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, on John’s back, toes curling, even as his fingers dug into John’s scalp. His breath was rough and his throat ached from grunting. John kept up the motion relentlessly.

The second time John pulled off completely he was breathing ragged and he seemed just as dizzy with need as Mycroft felt, “Now.”

Mycroft merely nodded with a low and rumbling growl, and flipped their positions. As he bent, for the first time he noticed the bruises on his body. John hadn’t been brutal, far from it, and yet there wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t painted in various shades of red, some already starting to turn purple. He fumbled first with the packet and then with the condom for several long and embarrassing moments finally sheathing himself with mutual relief. He coaxed the dildo out, and possessively surged over John, looming as he made sure to cover John’s body with his. He took a deep breath to control himself and pulled John into the same position as earlier, replacing the pillow. Reminding himself to be patient, he entered John with a full body shudder and a gasp, holding back the overwhelming urge to thrust hard. He entered into him sluggishly, and couldn’t help a smug grin at John’s low whine and demanding, reverberating moan. Finally. Finally he was in John. Fully. In. Oh god!

Mycroft tipped his hips, nudged into John’s prostate, and then basked in the feeling of John under him and around him, completely surrounding him, and then John bucked into him urgently.   Mycroft was desperate with need. His body craved John’s. Sex had never felt so right. As they picked up a rhythm Mycroft at once felt at sea and anchored.

John was all but incoherent as he babbled broken sentences and half formed words to say how much he’d wanted this and how good it felt. There were filthy promises and deifying adoration, damning curses mingled with fervent prayers. Mycroft was equally drunk on their mutual need. Both wanted it to last, further, forever, but neither knew how much more they could stand it.

And then amid all his verbal urging and caressing, John opened his blue eyes and looked at Mycroft in open wonder and he breathlessly told Mycroft, “God! Look at you! So beautiful!” and Mycroft came. Shouting as if in unbearable pain. His fingers digging into John’s sides, his face twisted in furious rapture. John found his body surging to respond, the spurts of his come coating them both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed this to be a pivotal encounter and hence have re-written this umpteen times. It is still not what my imagination said it should be but as close as my dubious writing talents could get to it (yes i'm fishing). It is why Chapters 13 onwards got delayed cos its essentially the same encounter and if I changed something in one place it had to be cascaded front and back. It is also the reason why compared to most of my chapters this is long - cos it had to be said in one go.
> 
> If you still find some inconsistencies (either within or with the rest of the story or with what I wrote as my head canon) please do let me know.  
> I have been reading too much ACD fanfic recently and am tempted to write more there. But I have told myself that I have to finish this first cos most of it is written and needs cleaning up! but the muse needs a firm hand and I am unfortunately a mere tool. So if the posting here is erratic please be your lovely forgiving selves. 
> 
> Drop me a note if possible please. Its so nice hearing from all of you.  
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Those of you have been following and encouraging and arguing about this all along - I cannot thank you enough. It is truly a delight to get your comments and kudos.**
> 
>  
> 
>    
> PS: My writing notes while outlining the story say- We need a take charge John here.


	16. I want more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishes to all those who observe Easter.

The next morning saw Mycroft at his desk at 7 sharp. He knew that he hadn’t been too reluctant to do so this morning. It had been a combination of guilt over having ‘pushed back’ Sherlock’s status and the pleasure he had derived with John the previous night. He had slept sound and had woken fresh. The previous night had been the best sex he had had in a very long time. Perhaps since he first discovered sex. But this morning, he couldn’t forget that their relationship didn’t lend itself to lingering embraces and lazy awakenings. Fortunately, the doctor in his bed had had similar thoughts and had informed him on the way to the bathroom that he was going back to Baker St. to change and thence to work. Shower and breakfast had been quick and efficient and their goodbyes as succinct as always. He had let John know that he would be unavailable for some time.

A was already in. There was no news from his contact but he wasn’t worried whether she would come through. She still owed him so many times over. These things required tact and patience, and he could be very patient when it came to his brother’s well being. The Czech operation that A had been overseeing had concluded rather neatly for all concerned save the new militant Serbian faction. Hydra’s heads as A called them. He had a call with the Sri Lankan President in an hour, a meeting with the Lord Chamberlain later in the day and then a flight to Marrakesh that evening. The various reports A pulled for would take up the lion’s share of the day (as would worrying over Sherlock).

The day went as planned. At 10:37 his contact came through. Within minutes Rivers had reported the release of _Mr. Scott_ and by evening Sherlock had contacted them to acknowledge the new set of exits. The target had not changed location and the rest of his mission would hopefully remain unchanged. In all, it had been a minor glitch. Sherlock had suffered only minor scrapes and bruises during his capture. Of course, now that they had been noticed (aka had made the major mistake of abducting a foreign national), the faction responsible would be stealthily monitored by both the local government and the MI6. Hydra’s heads indeed. The meetings and the flight had been much as predicted and desired (small mercies). His team had reported no issues for the meeting next morning but given the current European situation he had had a lot to prepare for it.

In short, he did not have a minute's rest until his head hit the pillow. A had not accompanied him to Marrakesh. He would be back the next afternoon and then both would be travelling to Indonesia together. Unbidden he realised that it would be six more days until he could possibly see John again. Perhaps even more. He was truly annoyed at himself for thinking that. But what annoyed him more was that now the previous evening ran in his mind in full detail. It was intolerable. Not only did he recall their lov- their- the sex. But he also recalled the before and after. From the moment he had stepped in to see John at the table, to the point when sleep had overtaken him. Parts of that last bit hadn't been too pleasant, he thought, even more annoyed with himself. A would have a field day lecturing him if she ever found out his last thoughts of the night.

***

_ The previous night _

Mycroft felt sleep stealing over him. His mind resisted sleep even as his body grew languid. He had managed a peek into his phone and A had responded with her code for _nothing changed/ will let you know, et al._ there wasn’t much he could do right now. He knew that the next few days could be terrible or much the same as far as Sherlock was concerned. This wasn't the first and surely wouldn't be the last time Sherlock was in a situation where Mycroft couldn't intervene directly. They had known that even as they had planned it. That was just part of it. The other was John.

There was something niggling, which he couldn’t quite grasp. The intercourse had been more than satisfying. He felt sated for the moment, but wasn’t sure that it was enough. He had decided to push for more that day. He had wanted John to feel this. He felt as if he had failed or rather that he hadn’t been completely successful.

In all their time together, John had never met him toe to toe in bed. This was the first time that the man he had first met at the warehouse was the man in his bed. He knew it somehow. He wasn’t sure what had changed. He could make a few inferences but what good would that do. John had unwittingly found himself playing the role of host and caretaker in Mycroft’s own house and something had changed. Mycroft had not expected him to wait at all. Given that he had, Mycroft had thought that John would be waiting for him on the couch having a drink. The John Watson of the last few months would have done that. John seemed to have hardly used the living room. The few people that he had invited were either impressed or intimidated by his sitting room. The man he had met first, would have been neither. But he hadn’t been sure what the latest avatar of John had made of the room. In either case, he had been sure that (or rather he had been hoping that) John would like the rest of his house. But there hadn’t been any time to show it off properly.

With the exception of A, no one had been allowed beyond the sitting room. A of course had spent many a night (or day) here. Heck the third room to his mind had always been called A’s room. John seemed to have liked the kitchen. It was where Mycroft spent time experimenting with various foods and recipes, whenever his work permitted. Did John like this room? Most probably, John hadn’t registered much beyond it having a comfortable bed and an en-suite bathroom.

As Mycroft drifted into sleep he realised— once again, not once, not even in the very heat of it all, had John said his name.

*****

John isn't sure why he chose not to be prepared to spend the night at Mycroft's place. The invitation had been for dinner. They had been now sleeping together for more than three months. Even the first time he had slept over at Sarah's he had taken his toothbrush and a change of clothes for the next day. But it never occurred to him to do the same yesterday. Which meant that he had to rush back home to change. Bother!

He was on for just half a shift (three and a half days each week was all he allowed himself ever since he had added Sherlock's Case to his priorities) and then it was off to the war room. A solitary dinner in front of the TV and then to sleep. He wondered whether Mycroft was busy solving something domestic or international? Was he in London or even England at the moment. Or was it just that he would be too busy to meet? He yawned. He hadn't slept easily last night. It was rather silly of him. He had had plenty of sex without love or even basic commitment. Heck, after he joined the army, this was possibly the longest he had stayed with the same partner. School and Medical had been different of course. Back then he had been all about long term. But the army had somehow changed that. Yes, he had changed and, even though Sherlock had alternated between telling him that he was an incurable romantic or that he was rather free with his favours, he wasn't either. Which meant that in overthinking it all both last night and now he was being silly. Ugh, last night!

***

_ The previous night _

John lay with his eyes open. His finger tips traced lazy circles on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft’s breath against his chest was evening out and was almost a whisper now. He clutched him closer. He wasn’t a man given to too much self-exploration. But the last few years had left him with no choice. Having to leave the army and then Sherlock and now Mycroft. He had tried shutting it all out after Sherlock. But, had found himself again and again searching for elusive answers. He had fallen into a habit of scrutinising his own actions and hoping he wasn’t repeating his mistakes.

When Mycroft had first come to him, John had wondered if he was being unfair to him. He wasn’t sure why Mycroft had accepted his overtures that first time. For quite some time, John had felt rather guilty each time Mycroft had come over and they had fallen into bed together. He had always felt as if he were using Mycroft. It had gotten better in time, but, tonight had been the first time that he had felt like his own self. Tonight was also the first time when he had felt like Mycroft had gotten something out of their sex (other than an orgasm).

It was strange, this feeling of having given away a piece of himself and feeling whole, he thought as he cradled Mycroft’s spent body. He was half draped on John’s body, face tucked in his shoulder, one hand wrapped around his torso the other curled above his head. Given their respective heights it was a strange position and yet this was hardly the first time they had assumed it. One of John’s legs was trapped under Mycroft's, while the other had been dragged by the man over his hips, twisting John’s body at a somewhat awkward angle. John knew he would have to move to get comfortable but he was reluctant to disturb Mycroft. He had seemed stressed earlier and he was finally resting. John waited for Mycroft to descend into deeper sleep. He trailed his fingers softly through Mycroft’s hair as he walked through the last few hours again.

It had been a strange evening. John knew that he had subconsciously thought that Mycroft’s delay was at least partly the result of the detachment they both had so far displayed towards their relationship. While he was generous in bed, Mycroft was after all a Holmes, and the John Watsons of this world always seemed to be waiting for them and upon them, had been his self-deprecating assumption. He knew he was being petty.

His initial annoyance had also been fuelled in part by what he was now calling- _‘that room’_. It was cold and sterile and horrid. It didn’t belong with the lovely kitchen and dining room. It was a travesty in his opinion. How Mycroft could bear to step into it every day was beyond John. The room was just not Mycroft. Typical of John, he failed to wonder how he presumed that it wasn’t. The room wasn’t worth spending another moment over. He stopped himself and thought over the dinner instead.

He had been only half surprised by the well-stocked fridge and pantry. Obviously, Sherlock showed his sibling rivalry by going the exact opposite way that Mycroft did. He hadn’t spent a quiet evening reading ever since… well for a long time. He had actually enjoyed himself. Though the shifts in Mycroft’s moods through the evening had baffled him, the meal had been pleasant. Mycroft had been so open and sincere in his appreciation. It had seemed so … homely? John shied away from the word and sought a different one… friendly? …comfortable? None of the others fitted so he abandoned the thought and attempted to move to a more comfortable position. Mycroft made a snuffling sound in complain, and John smiled to himself, finally finding a better position while continuing to cradle Mycroft.

He wondered at the sudden chill as they had undressed. Maybe it had been some message on Mycroft’s phone. Even a Holmes couldn’t mask everything all the time after all. But he had truly relished the passion when they had touched. The desperation in that had thawed Mycroft and John had enjoyed matching both passion and urgency. And yet there was some tiny detail that disallowed him to be fully ok with all of it. He knew it was pathetically stupid of him but he could not help thinking that he wanted more. Needed more. If only he knew what was missing. Did Mycroft feel the same?

He wondered what matters hunkered in that brain of his? He hoped that whatever it was that had weighed Mycroft down earlier that evening would be resolved soon. Would Mycroft ever confide in him? John didn’t need Mycroft divulging delicate security concerns to him. But it would be nice if he would let his anxiety show or simply say a word to indicate his stress. If he allowed (or demanded) John to comfort him. Unwittingly, a sigh escaped John. He knew it would never happen. They had started as they meant to go and it was no use trying to change the rules mid-way.

***

What neither of them questioned or bothered to analyse was that as usual, sometime during the night, they had assumed the same position that they had fallen into since that very first night and had done each night they spent together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of the morning after. Yes, it is anticlimactic. But hopefully not OOC.
> 
> Yes, they are both being idiots. 
> 
> So whatsupp at your ends? Drop a note won't you?  
> See you all soon.


	17. Friends, love, annoyances - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Anthea and Lestrade for a change. I so like them in BBC canon.

A headache was building but he was having a rather Sherlockian reaction to it and ignoring it or the possible causes. The others on the floor were, fortunately, too busy and ignoring him in turn.

  * Sebastian Moran – son of a diplomat, one of the best snipers in the Royal Army until he had been dis-honourably discharged. The random acts of cruelty against civilians and captured enemy soldiers had been quite effectively suppressed and the world at large would never know.
  * The Hon. Ronnie Adair – daughter of an Earl and heiress to his vast business fortune, an astute business leader in her own right. Cambridge and LBS. Poster-child of the _right_ sort of celebrity, given her— zero scandal, steady boyfriend since high school— score so far. A sort of anti-Hilton that the press loved to tout and possibly the Sun would give a fortune to mangle the reputation of.
  * Illegal gambling – Huge wagers made by the richest in the commonwealth (not globally which was telling). Against national or global events. Both the former seemed to be somehow connected to it.



Just three of the seemingly loose threads that he had come across while cross-referencing his journal, NSY files and government intel on Moriarty’s network. Anything even remotely deemed to be connected had been brought together. The AI had done a fantastic job on pattern recognition and threading seemingly random data together but it still needed human intelligence to concretise the connections.

John knew that once they discovered something in the war-room, someone ‘on the field’ would be ordered to remove it. As a doctor he knew that you could make a diagnosis but the treatment or surgery could be handed over to a specialist, but it still rankled as a soldier. As an army-man he had enough discipline to separate the two.

He had to get to the bottom of this. What exactly was their connection? The headache was now quite prominent and John realised he had started rubbing his temples.

The exit door in the back opened with a soft hiss. The steady step of someone used to leg-work. A yarder then. The steps veered off in another direction. John wasn’t feeling too friendly and breathed a sigh of relief. Yup, he was definitely going Sherlock.

A few moments later a mug of coffee and a plate with a couple of pastries was unceremoniously plonked on his table by a browned hand, nails scrupulously clean but that had never seen a manicure, the sleeve in his vision periphery was just this side of clean and had possibly been rolled over and then re-buttoned. All of this took barely a second to register and he laughed out loud at the recurring Holmesian theme of the evening before cringing thanks to his headache. “Thanks Greg,” he said looking up at the benign tired face.

“Take a break, John.” Greg dragged a chair closer.

“Umm yes,” he inhaled the aroma from his coffee mug.

They sat together in silence. Greg sipping at his own mug and polishing off what seemed to be a very unhealthy very late lunch. John’s inner doctor was definitely in conflict with his inner medic. The former was always lecturing and advising people on healthier choices while the latter knew that finding time and energy to seek them wasn’t always easy or manageable.

The plates and mugs were cleaned and returned to the pantry and the gents to their chairs.

“So?”

“Moran, Adair, gambling.”

“The earl?”

“Nope, Ronnie.”

“Jesus.”

“No proof yet, Greg. Your angel might just be that. Just suspicions from the AI so far.”

They got down to it. The detective was the doggedly go on till you find the solution type and John was once again glad to have him by his side. They managed to pull out a few more ‘coincidences’ that connected all three. The emerging hypothesis was that Adair has been participating in the illegal high-stakes gambling and had suspected Moran of ‘match-fixing’ (to scramble metaphors) and had possibly voiced her suspicions to certain parties. This may have gotten Moran _interested_ in her. They logged all their findings and informed the relevant someone from Mycroft’s team.

They decided to go back to Greg’s and cook for a change. Buying chopped veggies, mushrooms and ‘fresh noodles’ wasn’t ideal but hey it was still cooking and they could at least reduce the grease involved and have more veggies than noodles in it. Plus, Greg had prepared the sauce himself!

The stir-fry had been just right. Yielded enough for Greg’s next dinner at home. The rest of the eggs they had bought in the fridge as well so hopefully Greg would find time to at least boil them. Beers in hand they sat in front of the telly for recorded highlights of a match. It was the sanest thing on.

“John.”

“Hm.”

“I’m glad you are happy, mate.”

John turned to Lestrade a bit puzzled. The DI looked rather uncomfortable but managed to look him in the eye.

“You know I think of you as a friend, right?” John nodded. “And I am not being nosy or anything and I don’t want to bring back memories, ok.” Ah! “But he was what brought us together. When he— I was scared for you then ok.” Greg said hurriedly. “But I’m glad you got back to us.”

John was sure this was just as uncomfortable to Greg and he wished his friend would just stop. He hadn’t gotten over Sherlock’s loss so much as buried it somewhere deep and told himself to be useful instead of moping around. The A&E work and the war-room had both helped in the latter. He just nodded to indicate it was ok.

Greg cleared his throat and continued, “I’m glad you and Mycroft...”

The look on John’s face must have been terrible if Greg’s cringe was anything to go on.

“Sorry mate. Really sorry if I’m overstepping. Didn’t mean. Just— just happy for you.”

“No no. It’s fine. It’s ok.” John wasn’t sure what to say but he relaxed his face into his usual expression. He hadn’t really thought if he wanted others to know. Heck! Surely some of them would have realised. It was possible that even Mrs. Hudson had some idea. She had been trying to stay away from 221 quite a bit off-late. Either ways he simply hadn't thought about it at all.

“Umm yeah, thanks,” he mumbled.

Another throat clearing, “Ok then. Good.”

They turned to the telly and thankfully neither tried to speak of anything else again.

*****

It had been the usual maddening week and the plane back to London was the first time Mycroft and A had had any chance to speak as friends. They cloistered themselves into one of the secure cabins on-board, A’s feet nestling besides Mycroft on the seat opposite, her hair in a messy knot, her crisp shirt carefully hanging on the side while she lounged in her bra. Mycroft knew the value of keeping up a façade. He had always respected A’s need to keep up appearances even from the rest of their team. Only two of them had been privy to him shirtless but he was sure that not one of them had seen A like this. A’s eyes were closed when Mycroft was about to formulate a question that she answered, “Is fine. Will shortly be posted to Nigeria. Is hoping I’ll go join there for our anniversaries and will join me for a week wherever possible every two months.”

Mycroft thoroughly approved of A’s long-term partner and now spouse of more than a year. They had met exactly twice so far – once when Mycroft had realised A was becoming _involved,_ and again when he had proposed and A had gone into a vodka fuelled denial mode. Both meetings had been highly successful. A had tortured him over a week each time for what she termed kidnappings. _Rubbish!_

A nudged him with her foot. What was it with people in his life prodding him like a horse? “Aha! So the good doctor has been treating you well, I see.” If people thought her perpetual Mona Lisa smile was annoying they ought to see her in full blown toothy grin, anticipating his words, all without having opened her eyes. “Oh none of that now. You had such a lovely smile when you thought of him just now. C’mon give me one of those again.”

Mycroft pointedly ignored her.

“I like him and if you are allowed to ask so am I. Yes, he isn’t your husband but you kidnapped mine two and a half dates in and only one kiss later. You both on the other hand have been sleeping together for three months now. Oh, stop! You know that I know and that having him at your place, which I had been advising for weeks, made you happier. It also as per the norm made you grumpier. If you would only have it all out in the open and let him know it would all get better.”

Mycroft gave her his patented raised eyebrow and she finally opened her eyes. “No I am not done anticipating your idiotic objections. Yes, the whole S thing is going to blow shit sky high between you both. But then that will happen any which way. He blamed you for the _jumping_ and he is going to blame you for keeping it from him. That’s how it works. We always take the blame. But if you come clean at least about how you feel he will know it had nothing to do with not trusting him, cetera. Yes, I am your relationship guru. Cos there is no one else, you are too much like me, you are making the same mistakes, our _normal_ people, _goldfish_ in your parlance, are smarter and more understanding than we give them credit for, and most importantly – his prior feelings weren’t reciprocated but his current ones are and knowing that may truly help him.”

“There are no _current_ feelings. This is merely a convenient arrangement, which will likely be terminated the minute _all this_ is over. And the current _inquiries over the comms_ indicate that perhaps the _prior_ feelings may be reciprocated now.”

A’s snort would have done a sixteen year old proud but her intent to counter was upset by a knock on the cabin door and Mycroft was saved. He left immediately as A reached for her shirt and both reached for their public masks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so it's a well established thing that doctors have the worst self-care ever. Med students are almost always sleep deprived, nutritionally compromised, have a high chance of being smokers etc. It's the stress of the whole thing. I love doctors so this is all said out of affection, respect and exasperation. 
> 
> I'm trying to borrow ACD canon here, lets see how it works.
> 
> I think by now John has started to be able to think of Sherlock easily and without as much pain. Just like you and I would do relates stuff or he recalls habits or traits or incidences. It's a way of healing. But that's just one part. Another part of him is sad and guilty (he called Sherlock a machine and all that baggage that we all have both analysed and read about). Being busy is the best way to deal with grief of course but that doesn't mean you shouldn't confront it and deal with it in other ways. Ah but thats our John.
> 
> Mycroft is doing his usual I-know-best-and-I-don't-need-anyone-else's-opinion. He is usually right and so when he is wrong it takes him a whole lot longer to realise. He has spent a long time pining away while JW saw him only as Sherlock's elder brother. Sometimes annoying, sometimes an ally, sometimes useful, all around Holmesian. It would have hurt a lot to see his brother casually throwing away what he craved. Now that John has finally seen him as something else he refuses to acknowledge that. Don't worry that will happen.  
> As for "inquiries over the comms", Sherlock has been asking after John in his own manner and Mycroft is assuming that means he is finally falling for John. Aaargh!
> 
> I think Lestrade is the most underplayed character in canon and also the most loved (Nothing to do with the dishy Mr Graves of course :D). He would have guessed over the course of several interactions that things have changed between John and Mycroft, Mycroft's sever mien notwithstanding. But he is extremely discreet and hence can be relied upon. But I don't see him going further than this even if he is damned curious and rather protective of his friends.
> 
> Anthea of course is awesomeness incarnate. She loves Mycroft and is intensely loyal to him. But she is rather Holmesian in some ways as well. Hence her thinking that John is currently unattached —> John has agreed to have a physical relationship —> Mycroft loves John —> Mycroft deserves to have John for good.  
> and Mycroft and Sherlock lied to John —> John is going to be angry when he finds out —> Mycroft is going to bear the brunt —> Being involved with him will make John go easy on MH —> Mycroft should acknowledge and reveal his feelings for John.
> 
> Good? bad? Who knows. 
> 
> It's nice to see how some readers go poor John - bad Mycroft, others go poor confused Mycroft - c'mon John understand how much he cares for you, and a third lot go oh both are idiots and hurting- get your act together. I get to stay in all three camps :-)
> 
> Thanks so much for all the love please keep telling me what you like/dislike/get angry about/ are frustrated with/ adore/ couldn't understand/ etc. Or just say hi, I quite like that as well 
> 
> Until the next chapter mon amigos!


	18. Friends, love, annoyances - II

There were very few days in Mycroft Holmes’ life when he could say all went according to plan (or wishes). He knew that this would be true for the remainder of his life, given the inanity of humans in general, and bore it stoically. Perhaps he bore it better than his other counterparts (exactly three in this decade though there had been five once) simply because he was rarely taken by surprise. There were plenty of times when he knew things would not go his way no matter what, there were also enough scenarios when he knew exactly what was going to go wrong. For the rest he accepted in all realism that his predictions would of course be off the mark on some occasions. No matter what Sherlock thought, he did not have a god-complex and had never ever even thought he would be omnipotent or omniscient. It was only on the occasions when he missed the mark badly that he ever felt penitent. Given his level of intelligence and understanding it was unpardonable. Thankfully A agreed emphatically. Most people, if they ever knew, would have disagreed but fortunately, they had never been in his position. But there was a special guilt when it concerned Sherlock.

He felt guilty about how badly he had misread the whole Moriarty situation. He had thought himself in complete control both of the information being exchanged as well as the complete situation. He had been wrong. In fact, he had been wrong since the Power case. He had dismissed Sherlock’s concerns then. He had been wrong about Adler. He hadn’t even read his brother correctly there. It had been wrong to drag his brother in at all. He knew that part of it was his sheer pride in Sherlock. Sherlock could be everything, was everything, and blatantly did everything that he could not. It was almost like seeing himself had he been— It was the possibility. It was heady. It had been ultimately his downfall and hence that of his brother’s.

The damage to his power and his reputation 'within the circles' had been bad enough that he hadn’t dare to intervene either in re-instating the DI or the investigation against Sherlock. He had spent weeks regaining his footing in the power business. Fortunately A was wonderfully adept at creating Chinese walls and cocoons within cocoons. Soon, though his presence had become requisite for some international negotiations that had all but obliterated it all. His enemies wouldn’t let him or anyone else in the circles forget any of it easily of course. Power and people were both fickle but Mycroft had had decades of building his base. What he was still scrambling to do was help his brother return safely.

He hadn’t agreed to the plan at all. But Sherlock had been adamant. Mycroft had lost all his bargaining chips at that point and had had almost no one he could have trusted either to substitute or accompany Sherlock. Loyalty among spies and agents was hard to find. But if they were anywhere near the calibre and anonymity that this _job_ required then it was impossible. In his experience, the best of that combination were actually usually found far more easily on the opposing teams. But even if he had found one, Sherlock’s reasons far outstripped any motivations or loyalty he could have bought (of course none matched his brother’s intelligence or focus as well). He had at one point tried having Sherlock as an agent of the crown but his brother had rebelled at the idea. Till the last, he had underscored that this was very much a personal mission and Mycroft had been included only on sufferance.

**

Sherlock was once again _missing_. This time however, Mycroft had known he would disappear so he wasn’t hunting for him. Sherlock had just as many contacts in Bangkok and hence his help would be superfluous.

He was predicting that the next _stop_ would be India. Mycroft had tremendous resources there. The only problem there of course was keeping anything a secret. They were a nosy lot.

**

The potential thread John and the Inspector had found connecting one of Moriarty’s lieutenants rumoured to be in England looked promising. Could be one of the three snipers. A was digging. 

**

Five more cases assisted by Sherlock had been cleared by the police department. They wanted to waste overtaxed resources combing all of them. Fortunately, the few early ones had been an unofficial understanding between Lestrade and him and his involvement had stayed unrecorded.

**

A fleeting meeting with one of their field operatives had brought back a report on _Mr. Sigerson_. It wasn’t heartening, but it was far better than the last time Sherlock had been in Bangkok. (He had similarly disappeared and proceeded to indulge in every drug that humans could abuse till Mycroft who had just begun his desk job went into field again and dragged him back home.).

**

Sherlock had been injured. His entry into Tibet had been a gross mistake.

**

John had been offered a larger and more long-term role at the A&E department. It was both lucrative as well as impressive professionally. He had refused. His search for _answers_ continued.

Three more visits to Baker Street. Physically, their encounters were becoming increasingly satisfying (mutually). John was smiling more often. Outright laughter while back was still rare and his _giggle_ was still absent.

**

A’s advice had been niggling away in Mycroft’s mind. Not that he was ever going to tell John. He knows he is right about what he had told her. John is a deeply loyal person. Telling him now would in the longer term mean subjecting him to tremendous guilt and torn loyalties when (not _if_ definitely not) Sherlock returned. If he continued to believe this a temporary liaison, then Mycroft would be able to sever ties easier (yes, he knew it would have to be him, since John wouldn't) and John would be left with a minimum of guilt. Sherlock definitely was showing interest in John’s wellbeing and this may be the final push needed to bring them together.

Of course John would be angry. The man could remain angry seemingly forever. Even so, he was sure John would forgive Sherlock eventually. (Once again it was a question of when and not if)

Sherlock has always had that advantage over Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > First, I have been to Bangkok and it is a lovely place and it is definitely not someplace I associate with narcotics. That line is not meant as a snub to the place or it's people.  
> Next, I am Indian so the nosy comment stays on unapologetically.  
> Third, since Sherlock went to Tibet I called him Sigerson. Scott, Sigerson, William, this is the short unimaginative list of his aliases for the time being.  
> 
> 
> *****
> 
> I think we need to get Sherlock home soon and see what happens. All this idiocy and not speaking out is really trying my nerves.
> 
> Ta everyone. You've been very patient (or tolerant) of my Mycroft. He believes John would be happiest with Sherlock. He also believes Sherlock's charm is omnipotent. This finishes Mycroft's POV at least for the time being. Lets hope we get some action now.
> 
> I'm back to the short chapters now cos thats typically how i write.
> 
> Note to self (and muse): Next weekend is a travel break so need to post something either here or a ficlet or sketch etc. 
> 
> **Lots of love everyone.** Do keep writing please. It's fantastic to see comments and kudos in the inbox.


	19. Contentment and Wistfulness

It was now close to a year and a half since that evening after Greg had been reinstated with that joke of an apology.

Sherlock Holmes was no longer a villain. The Met had cleared his name. All his cases had been proved genuine. (The only mystery that remained was of Richard Brook aka James Moriarty.)

Both John and Lestrade had spent an entire week smug and celebratory. John's pub night with Mike had been epic! John of course had visited Sherlock’s grave to tell him triumphantly (He confessed that he was still upset with him and got angry often but given time he promised Sherlock to overcome even that). One night, Mrs. Hudson had baked a cake. John had prepared a celebratory dinner of Sherlock’s favourite dishes among his very limited repertoire and invited both Greg and Mrs. H. Molly had refused. Unfortunately, Mycroft had not been in the country for a whole three weeks and the euphoria had drained by the time he returned. Nevertheless, on his return Mycroft and he had shared a smile that spoke of their mutual triumph.

He was content now. He had been writing up some of the old cases. He never had enough time earlier and his notes had piled up, and sometimes Sherlock, the snooty berk, had rated the case unworthy and dissuaded John from publishing it on his blog. The world would never forget Sherlock till John Watson lived. The work at the A&E kept him busy and _in touch_. He had friends— Greg, Mike, Mrs. H. Harry had finally seen it fit to stay sober. So far it has been nine months and John was feeling rather proud of her. They met once every month ever since she had called to tell him that she had completed her first _dry_ month.

Then there is Mycroft.

He wasn’t sure what exactly they were but it was not just sex. They now spent time (most often quietly) together. He had been reintroduced to not-Anthea (or A as Mycroft called her) and, it had taken him some time to decipher all the Holmesian, but now knew that she was not just a PA, nor a bodyguard but rather an extension of Mycroft and quite possibly his closest friend. He had also figured out that this was privileged information.

He had been to all three of Mycroft’s residences and each had traces of his time there: a piece of clothing, an extra toothbrush/ comb, his brand of shampoo, &c. Both Greg and Mike _knew_ of them, seemed to accept it and also seemed to be happy about it but most of all seemed to understand why John wasn’t declaring it out loud. And though Mrs H hadn’t said anything he was sure she knew as well. Her acceptance and happiness though wasn’t a given. She had been inordinately fond of Sherlock (and vice versa) and could be rather possessive on his behalf. But she had grown fond of John too and somehow he felt that she was a bit torn about it given that she did want John to be happy. However, unlike the other two she had never spoken of it and for that John was almost glad.

Mycroft had now cooked multiple gourmet meals for him (including a picnic) and John had reciprocated to the best of his abilities with a hodge podge of plain British fare and recipes he had learnt in Med school and tastes he had acquired in the army. Their tastes were different and yet similar. Their first choices for almost everything would be typically far apart and yet when they indulged in the other’s choice they always enjoyed it.

John knew that it wouldn’t last, that there was no happily-ever-after there. But he was glad that both of them had built a balance based on mutual respect and attraction. And that was more than enough. It was far more than what he had ever had with anyone else. They also shared grief of course. However, Mycroft barely showed it except when he had reminded John of Sherlock’s birthdays for the past two years running. Not that he had needed the reminder but… Those were the only days John had truly seen Mycroft indulging in cake. Almost as if challenging Sherlock to rise from beyond and taunt him once again about eating cake. John knew he was just as sentimentally idiotic with such thoughts as Sherlock had always labelled him.

So yes, John Watson was content.

And at times he was even happy.

*****

Mycroft Holmes was tired. He hadn’t slept in seventy-six hours. Except for two thirty-minute naps that had been possible simply thanks to A. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in just a bit longer. The endless cups of tea, coffee, vegan smoothies and small bites of anything that could be eaten with one hand whenever his mouth didn’t need to engage in conversation had had to suffice. Their adversaries this time had fortunately been from outside _home_ , so to speak. Much as he was rather adept at it, he hated dealing with internal schisms. Another mercy was that there had been no alarms at all on the Sherlock front during this time. Sherlock had successfully completed the China leg of the mission and had already managed to cross into Kazakhstan. One had to take blessings where one could get.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to John for nearly sixteen days though. After more than a year _together_ , he freely admitted to himself that he needed the man’s presence (periodically) as much as he needed sleep and food. He still referred to it as a mutually convenient agreement and insisted that it was _temporary_.

A had long since stopped correcting him. She knew there was an implosion impending once her boss stopped lying to himself. But she also knew from her own nature and experience that the meeting of the mountain and Mohammad was a long way off and would only happen when both stopped being in denial. The good doctor was being just as blind. (It had taken her nearly three years and that was when it had only been her doing the denying. She hoped against hope that these two would be less stubborn.) She was right now definitely as tired as Mycroft but fortunately had had much more to eat and almost thrice as much sleep. Mycroft had done all of the talking after all and his physical presence had been mandatory. Being in the background had it’s pros. This was nowhere the first time and this surely wouldn’t be the last and they had long since learnt that it was far more important for her to be recharged simply because she was needed for the _work_ as well as for Mycroft.

She was glad she would be having company at home. She knew Mycroft was thinking the same for himself.

Yes, Mycroft was all for a proper bath, sleep, food in any order and he hoped that sometime immediately afterwards all of those he would also _have_ John.

Which is why for the first time in forever those two almost cringed as they looked at their phones and then looked at each other.

“Go home, sir. I’ll look through it and call you.”

“No, my dear. This could be exactly what we have been waiting for.”

A gave him her patented _look_ and said, “Sleep then,” and started to read. Mycroft closed his eyes.

Twenty-two minutes later A woke him and filled him in as he ate his first decent meal in days. Sherlock’s last haul of data from China had proved worth the risk he had taken. The decrypted files had just been sent over along with the complete AI analysis with pattern recognition. They now had proof of two things— The first, there was only one last remaining cell in the ‘Moriarty network’ that was large or powerful enough and needed dismantling. The second, Col. Moran was indeed one of the snipers.

The first had been on their scanner for sometime owing to possible linkages of arms trading with terrorist groups in Asia. The group had remained almost untouchable owing to political _patronage_ at both local and national level. Plus, they had never had any clue regarding with whom the true power resided. The key figures were known but not the leader among them. With this new data they could now conduct both a physical and a political attack on the group.

Regarding the second, they couldn’t be fully sure but since the other two snipers they’d managed to _eliminate_ had most probably been meant for the DI and his landlady (they couldn’t be fully sure), which meant that Moran was possibly be the one for Doctor Watson. There was also a suspicion that more than one assassin was involved but it was so vague that they were not sure whether it was referring to a fourth entity or the previously eliminated persons.

Both realised that their immediate plans were no longer valid and their priorities changed accordingly.

Mycroft headed for the en suite in his office.

A called home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to skip quite a bit of time line. Sorry.
> 
> I really cannot paint Sherlock's adventures as the man braves the underbelly of civilisation across continents. My sheltered life has given me very limited imagination and Hollywood and other such sources aren't always useful.  
> Plus it was getting tiresome to say that Mycroft and John were being idiots even though they were doing everything including shagging together. 
> 
> Please feel free to fill in the last few months of their time together and Sherlock's time away as you please. I have tried to give a few more details but like i said the imagination is sorely lacking.
> 
> I think now we ought to pave our way towards Sherlock's return and hopefully get these idiots to confront their true feelings. Like everything else about this fic this may prove to be a long winded affair but you all have been rather patient so far so I shall continue to indulge.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who kudos and comment. It is wonderful to receive your reactions. Each one is precious to me.  
> Many many thanks


	20. A special hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for leaving this hanging. But I just couldn't seem to make any headway. But now I can say again that this work will be completed.
> 
> Thanks for still being with me.  
> Thanks for your patience and sorry for this long wait. I do love you all.

Mycroft gave a warning knock on the door of 221B before letting himself in. John was at home and he didn’t want to unnecessarily alarm him. He need not have bothered though as the crash from the kitchen told him. The loud rattling of pots and pans, the noisy slams of cabinet doors, and the intermittent cursing that followed were all signs that John Watson was in a temper.

Not a Sherlock put himself in danger again temper, not a my lovely date was interrupted again temper, and surely not an I’ve been kidnapped by Sherlock’s brother temper. No, this was proper anger. This was someone dared call Sherlock a freak, or Harry is drinking again temper or even higher. Mycroft carefully put away his office bag and hung up his coat, waistcoat and tie. The ‘ _background music_ ’ emanating from the kitchen continued. He removed his shoes and put on his slippers even as he unbuttoned his collar and rolled up his shirt sleeves. This was unfortunately accompanied by a splat and a streak of cursing the likes of which could have burnt even DI Lestrade’s ears. That’s it, time to intervene.

He found John on his knees cleaning away some mess that probably had been the erstwhile _splat_. His back was to the entrance but Mycroft was sure that his presence had been noted (and ignored). John did go completely and abruptly silent though, which was a pity since even an angry tirade from John was a treat for the ice-man. He could of course deduce or check with his people what the cause for anger was, but, for once, he wanted John to tell him instead. Both because he knew John hated it and saw it as an intrusion into his privacy and also because he wanted to wallow in the joy that John’s collegial divulgence gave him. That he would soon be deprived of them forever pushed him further in that direction.

John finished with the floor and threw the napkins into the bin under the sink. Then he washed his hands with such meticulous care that it was clear that the anger hadn’t abated one bit. Mycroft stepped further in. John stood still seemingly wiping his hands with the same care. His entire frame was buzzing with fury. Mycroft lifted a comforting hand and John’s shoulder seemed to withdraw a fraction. Should he? He wanted to. They never did this. Never truly spoke or shared. Would John? Mycroft wanted. He truly wanted to. But did John? Were they now close enough to? What if he offered and… and John refused?

He screwed up his courage and laid his hand on John’s shoulder. John seemed to crumble.

“John?”

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat noisily. “I… give me a minute?”

“…”

“Please.”

Instead, Mycroft moved in and slid his arms around John’s waist. His cheek came to rest on John’s head as he said, “Sure.” And stood there quietly.

There was a bit of silence that to Mycroft seemed to have drawn out to a few centuries as he hoped he had done the right thing.

Then John’s shoulders sagged and he huffed an exasperated laugh, “Typical Holmes. One of these days you should try following someone’s request you know.”

“…”

“It’s nothing really. I’ll be ok.” He patted Mycroft’s hand.

“…”

A huff of laugh again, “You are doing that silence thing and I am this close to breaking down and starting my rant all over again.”

“Good. It is a terrible thing to let a good rant go unheard.”

John giggled. John actually giggled. In all the months that they had been together for the very first time, John giggled. If the circumstances had been different Mycroft would have danced with joy and then dropped to one knee there and then. He merely swallowed his truly incomprehensibly out of proportion reaction to a John Watson giggle and asked, “Care to tell me, please. I promise I’ll merely listen. I will neither judge nor start to give you a solution half way through. Promise.” He repeated.

John sighed and leaned back and now Mycroft’s heart refused to acknowledge that it was even close to over-reacting. It was a very well proportioned reaction to John’s actions it scolded Mycroft. Of course it was if that damned bundle of muscles had gotten involved. Then John’s hand, the one that had been resting atop his, rubbed his in an absent-minded-seeking-comfort gesture and all bets were off. He queezed forward a bit and hummed, rubbing his cheek on that blond head now bounteously sprinkled with silver.

“It was a patient at the hospital. A homeless man. A… a vet.”

_Ah!_

He wanted to hold him closer. Protect his soldier from the ugliness of this world. He hadn’t felt that about someone in a very long time. He knew he couldn’t and he shouldn’t.

“John?”

“Sorry. I just… He… they… I mean… it isn’t right. He lost his legs in Iraq. He came in filthy, beaten black and blue by someone, from the looks of it someone who did it for fun, because no one would bother about someone homeless.”

_Damn!_

“A man who was wielding sophisticated… just… just a few months back. And today… He had track marks on his arm.”

_Damn and blast!_

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—“

“You should. You definitely should have and it’s a pity more people don’t.”

“…”

They stood there for a long time till John turned and gave Mycroft a smile and a shake of his head. He would never stop being amazed by the Holmeses it seemed.

“Pasta?”

“Sure. What can I do?”

They cook, eat, and clean together and John can’t help but think that he feels happy. After a very long time he is no longer alone. He isn’t sure what it means for them but it leaves him feeling warm. Through the evening he has been trying to observe Mycroft. The same man whom even the Adler woman described as an ice-man. They are now friends. Yes, they surely are. He likes to spend time together. Yes, they are companions too. A very few times he has even been able to take care of Mycroft. He has returned the care far more of course. Even now with Sherlock no more in the picture. They do have fun together. Though, Mycroft is even worse than Sherlock when it comes to poking holes in movie plots and John will never ever be able to see a Bond with the same fascination again. He smiles thinking of that dinner Mycroft finally cooked for him it was beyond sophistication and definitely over the top seductive. Then there was that impromptu picnic at Mycroft’s other place (he has three). That one was simplicity itself – apples, sandwiches, cake, beer, books and a blanket. And they are compatible in bed. So what are they?

John halts his spiralling thoughts and gives himself a talking to for devolving into a rom-com heroine. Do they really need a label? It’s not going to change anything after all. They are what they are and one day they wont be and they will go their own ways. Till then there is no point over-analysing stuff.

The sex that night would never be called _exceptional_ by anyone except for the two involved. It was good of course. But it was good _as expected_. As was the norm. It was sexy but it was also comfortable. The awkwardness had long worn off. Occasionally they still discovered something together. But, for the most part, they knew each other’s bodies, they knew what the other liked, what worked best, they knew their own pleasure as well, and they were comfortable asking for it. It was what a counsellor would endorse as intercourse between two normal healthy compatible adults attracted to each other and who have been together long enough. So it wasn’t any surprise that John followed the norm and promptly went to sleep with his arms around Mycroft.

 

However, Mycroft failed to. _Sherlock is returning soon._

The evening had been a bit different.  _Sherlock is returning soon._

He had never thought that John would ever lean on him (physically or metaphorically).  _Sherlock is returning soon._

He wants to savour it. He wished he could pack it in a box and hold it forever.  _Sherlock is returning soon._

It had felt as if they formed a NORMAL COUPLE. There he said it.  _Sherlock is returning soon._

Was there anything more pathetic that a capable and intelligent person indulging himself in such tomfoolery?  _Sherlock is returning soon._

Bloody buggering fuck! Perhaps now would be a good time to break things off.

There is a special hell reserved for the likes of him and it exists on this Earth itself.

Sherlock was nearly done. They couldn’t be fully sure but there was a very good chance that Serbia would be the last thread of Moriarty’s web. Which meant that it was time for Sherlock to return. _It was a good thing to happen._ When Sherlock had embarked on his ill-advised mission to save his friends by destroying Moriarty once and for all Mycroft had feared ever seeing his brother again. For the first time in nearly two decades he had pleaded with his brother. So this was indeed a good development and _Mycroft was truly happy_. He was. That it meant returning to the fringes of John’s life, or most possibly being completely removed from it, was causing him just a bit of… Damn and hell! He hasn’t regretted anything as much as kissing John Watson that first time nearly two years ago.

He has always reached out and taken or done what he judged was right and would do the greatest good, but this has only left him feeling guilty. John had loved _his brother_ , possibly still did, Mycroft had known it and yet he had not been able to stay away. He has been attracted to John himself all this time, since their first meeting in the abandoned warehouse. When he envied Sherlock the loyalty that John displayed. Now he has betrayed John and possibly even Sherlock.

He hadn’t been trying to replace Sherlock in John’s affections. Not at all.

He knew that he was merely a tool to relieve John’s grief and loneliness. John’s grief, which was rooted in a lie, that he had a hand in engineering. There are times that Mycroft can't bear the guilt of having hurt John. On the day of the funeral John had been in shock unable to even express grief, feeling that he failed Sherlock. In the months before he returned to medical practice, and eventually to _‘restoring Sherlock’s reputation’_ , both Mrs. H and the DI had been sure that he was considering suicide.

As Mycroft's feelings had deepened, he had been saddened that John seemed to see him if not as an enemy then as someone opposing Sherlock and hence John. But he had been immensely relieved that Sherlock had finally found _someone._ His brother had always been vulnerable since he needed others in spite of Mycroft’s remonstrance. All he had received had been constant hurt and betrayal at the hands of lesser beings not fit to breathe the same air as Sherlock. But John knew, had known in less than a day that Sherlock was precious and hence, he was needed and belonged by Sherlock’s side. So Mycroft’s natural reticence came in handy to bury his attraction. Though Sherlock had suspected and had taunted him about it a few times.

And so when he had been given a chance… It had been merely a sliver of hope but he had been incapable of crushing it. How could he tell John now? Sherlock would be home soon and it would be snatched away forever. Why would he confess anything and curtail what little time he had?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think? Good enough to continue?  
> Should I trust my muse and follow whither she leads?
> 
> Drop a note won't you please


	21. Beating retreat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a teeny tiny chapter even by my puny standards but *sigh* I'm writing again so shouldn't complain. But I do apologise to all of you for it. I'll try to make the next one a bit longer.  
> So how are you all? Every thing ok in AO3 and out?

Some delusions are worth keeping.

John had already soaped himself by the time Mycroft stepped into the shower. Mycroft touched his butt perfunctorily and John wondered if Mycroft even realised how much it hurt when Mycroft did things out of custom and not emotional compulsion. Mycroft seldom initiated touches outside of sex. He had been preoccupied today and perhaps didn’t even feel like talking much less actually having sex. So John hadn’t been expecting any of it. Not the joint shower and certainly not the touch. And still Mycroft had done both. The half-hearted touch had added a few more scratches to John's already bruised heart. He washed himself quickly and turned around. “I’ll check out the dinner ok? Should be done by the time you come down.” He wrapped a towel around and stepped out.

Mycroft let the warm water pulse around him, hardly moving. He felt so cold. He wished John had stayed. He wished John had touched him back. He wished John had asked him to touch some more. He wished he had. But how does one say it. He had reached out and touched him, but John hadn’t responded at all. John hadn't even turned. How do you tell your _sex-only partner_ that you would like to actually that you want to touch and be touched but not fuck? As the water misted around him he wondered if there was a secret code of love that was far different from the language of friendship or sex. But who would teach him? Why would they? Suddenly it was too warm. He couldn’t bear any more warmth and turned the shower off. He was asking for too much. It was irrational. He briskly rubbed himself and slipped on his worn pair of linen pyjamas instead. The touch comforted him and for a panicked moment he wondered if he deserved it? Irrational. Cursing his weakness he went down and found John already at the table. They ate in near silence.

John knew that, having cooked, he wouldn’t be allowed to tidy. So he simply poured himself another glass of wine and waited for Mycroft. He felt a strange reluctance to go into the bedroom alone, which he dared not examine. They did not speak a word except when utterly necessary. Even then they rationed the words. John couldn't even bear to look at Mycroft. He wasn't ready for this. He had promised himself but now that it was here... he couldn't bear to even consider it. He was feeling distinctly cowardly.

Mycroft was soon done and together they made their way upstairs again.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Mycroft grabbed him and held him tight. As if he would never let go. As if they would never part. As if the feel of John in his arms would suffice to heal whatever was hurting him. John simply held him back, cradling his head in the crook of his neck.

Yeah, some illusions were too dear to shatter.

The whole two weeks had been a series of misses. To a third party there would be nothing out of the norm. They still met regularly or as much as their work permitted, did normal stuff like cooking and washing together, shagged each other and John is pretty sure they were monogamous out of choice and not compulsion. But he also knew that this was the end.

With Mycroft here with him, he did now what he couldn't at the table alone. He finally found the courage to acknowledge it. He had promised himself that whenever it happened (it was a question of _when_ not if) he would let go without a fuss. But now he wasn't sure he could. It wasn't easy.

This wasn't a "I'm so used to you now that breaking off is inconvenient." It was not the convenience. Not one bit. He knew of couples who got into a rut but continued because they had gotten used to each other. But he was bloody sure that wasn't the case.

Mycroft had withdrawn. There wasn't any other word. Just as John had finally thought that they had something together. God! could he be more pathetic? But it was true, he had thought that they were _together_. He felt comfortable. He felt... goddamn it he _felt_ and that was the problem. 

And now after all the promises he had made to himself to let go, he wanted to fight. He wanted to ask why and why not. It was just that he wasn't sure what it was that he would be fighting for? And who was he fighting for?

It almost felt like a fucking divorce.

Both of them were always on the edge when they were together. They hardly spoke any more. But the part that made it _almost_ and not definitely was the sex. Come bed time all seemed to be in working order. It was true that they didn't need to talk there and yet they _spoke._  It wasn't bad at all. They were still just as compatible and just as hungry for each other. Maybe more so. He wasn't sure what the hell was wrong. If Mycroft was getting bored of him and their arrangement then shouldn't he be tapering off on bed as well? Shouldnt he be cold here or just going through the motions to send John a strong signal? Instead they went perfunctorily through their interactions outside, almost rushed through the rest of their time together to get here. IF anything, the sex was hotter and Mycroft could not have been be more attentive to John's pleasure. John of course reciprocated in full and the results were simply blowing his mind and confusing him about the signals he was receiving. Were they or were they not breaking things off? And why did Mycroft bloody Holmes not just say so?

Should he speak first then? Maybe he should. 

*****

Mycroft knew John was still awake.

He shouldn't have done that. He should have stayed aloof. He knew it. He knew that he had just made things worse for them. He needed to withdraw completely. But he had never felt so out of control as he did when John came to him voluntarily in bed. After an entire evening of holding himself in check... the only place he could let go was here in bed. They had only a little time left and... It would be best if he made a clean break before... everything. He knew he was being a bastard and was hurting John. He should just say it and be done with it. And he had meant to do just that but it wasn't easy. 

Would it be so terrible to tell it all to John? They had done ok together hadn't they?

Mycroft recalled John's nightmares. His incessant insomnia. How Mrs. H had feared for his sanity and life. How the DI has visited at random times to check up on the doctor. How frantic they all had been when John had moved out if 221. He recalled the relief in Lestrade's voice when John had first joined the A&E and called yhe DI out for a pint. He recalled Mrs. Hudson's shaky voice telling him when John had asked to return. He had come back for her of course. It had all helped. His work at the hospital, his friends, the investigations to clear Sherlock's name.

When John allowed A to include him in the team, Mycroft knew finally that he had made a turn for the better. But his surveillance told him that the nightmares had truly abated when they had started being together.

Perhaps they could make it work? If... Maybe John would... 

He was a fool. A bloody idiot. 

Every single time he paved the way to breaking off things his mind and body betrayed him. The whole of the last fortnight he had stayed cold in their social interactions, had paid minimum attention (outwardly) had withdrawn any physical affection. On occasion he had even been curt enough to have put Sherlock to shame. But his body seemed to have missed the memo. The minute they were in bed he couldn't hold back. He knew he was hurting John. He should just man up and say it.

But it wasn't easy because it wasn't physical or an arrangement or a convenience. He craved the smiles and the laughter, he craved the calm silences, he wanted John to fondly mock him and his prim ways, he needed John to need him, he wanted to be able to expect things and have things expected of him.

This was such a mess! And he was culpable.

Tomorrow morning. Yes, he would sit and spell it out and be done with it.

 

They lay awake together for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know not exactly what a beating retreat means but when a relationship comes to an end sometimes it isn't abrupt. It drags on and it has some glorious sparks but eventually is just as sad.
> 
> Sorry that I'm turning Mycroft into a complete and utter b*****d incapable of doing things right. I don't know why I'm doing this but I hope when it all ends you will be satisfied.


	22. Blows unseen and unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If nothing fazes you then skip the WARNING as it could be spoilerish.  
> If you have a problem with injuries and or medical stuff then please read and heed.  
> WARNING:  
> (1) Description of what is the equivalent of an intensive care unit in a hospital. If medical paraphernalia surrounding a patient traumatises you then please skip the parts between "sub-optimal results." and "beginning of it really.". I've bookended it with %%% just to be sure
> 
> (2) Description of severe physical trauma. Skip the part between "before continuing." and "in the recent past." if it traumatises you in any way. I've bookended it with ^^^ just to be sure
> 
> Let me know and I will give you a short un-explicit summary before I start the next chapter. Stay safe because you are all loved and needed.

Mycroft disappeared for a week. It was unsettling how much John missed the man. While he rarely apprised John of his plans it had now become customary in the last year or more for him to tell John when he would be unable to meet him for extended periods. It felt strange not to know before hand because that meant he was forever looking out for him. Or perhaps this was it. This was the goodbye. He had expected more of him. He had been sure that Mycroft would give him a definite word that things had ended. Perhaps he didn't truly know the man he had been sleeping with for more than a year now?

Having an entire free day was no excuse to brooding and overthinking. He went to the ‘war-room’ the first thing in the morning instead. He finally knew what he had overlooked the first few (hundred) times that he had read through the ‘pool-incident’. There had been another person right there. Not the sniper/s aiming from a distance but someone right next to them. John had always gone by his gut as both a soldier and a doctor. Training took you only so much. He had known somehow that the person would not interfere. How he couldn’t have said but he knew then that Moriarty was toying with them and would have killed them if he had truly wanted. He wanted Sherlock scared and he wouldn’t have cared if John had been seriously maimed or even killed but his minions would not kill Sherlock easily.

He knew that Mycroft’s people had traced three snipers in Moriarty’s pay and that two had been ‘eliminated’. One was still on the loose but was most probably that Moran fellow who had been involved in that illegal gambling-ring. He quickly sent this new information about the possibility of another person. This person had been Moriarty's John Watson. He was sure. Moriarty had relied upon them to be close enough should he need them but to follow his plan strictly otherwise.

*****

By the middle of the second week John had reconciled himself to a Holmes-less existence once again. So of course Mycroft returned to pick John at Baker St. that afternoon. Court was at the wheel and he had given John his usual affable smile. Mycroft hadn’t said anything beyond telling him it was a personal matter and that he had arranged John to have a few days leave of absence. John had followed his instructions not to pack anything. John could easily penetrate Mycroft’s mask now and so his well-concealed anxiety was palpable to John. That coupled with the desperation John had felt the previous few days left a heavy feeling in his gut. Thirty minutes into their journey, he couldn’t take it anymore and gave in to his yearning and took Mycroft’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb gently over its back. Mycroft looked at their hands and then looked up at him, his face momentarily slipping into bleakness. John relaxed his face into what he hoped was a reassuring expression. Mycroft gave him a plastic half smile in response but to John’s relief, he let their hands be, even curling his fingers ever so slightly.

In a little while John was sure they were headed to what he teasingly had once referred to as Mycroft’s ‘country residence’. The feeling in his gut became heavier as his mind scrambled for possibilities. He had met Mr. and Mrs. Holmes only once and had truly liked them. He hoped this was no family related emergency. The couple who looked after the house and the grounds were as much a dear as Mrs. H. But he was sure Mycroft wouldn’t whisk him away for them. It was a bit clandestine and his imagination was on an overdrive by the time they reached. As the car eased into the porch and halted, John noticed Mycroft staring down at their hands longingly. Whatever it was he wanted to reassure Mycroft, but there was no time. They had reached the house and Court had opened the doors first on Mycroft’s side and then on John’s. The house looked as it always did but John couldn’t help a shiver of anticipation and stepped out rather reluctantly.

They entered and Mycroft led him to another set of rooms, a whole wing that they had never used. It has always been locked and John had once amusedly thought of them as Bluebeard’s lair till the housekeeper let it slip that they had been _Mr. Sherlock’s Rooms_. The thought recurred to him now and he found himself growing increasingly uneasy. He was always reluctant to visit his old friend’s rooms. He had never even entered the one in 221B. Today, however, there was an added layer of anxiety. As if this would mark an end to something. He wasn’t even sure what his gut was telling him but it was nearly paralysing so it couldn't be danger. It must be something else. Something messy and complicated which no one in their right mind would turn over to examine.

“I don’t want to go there,” he blurted out finally.

Mycroft stopped and turned to look at him blankly. “Think of the patient in need, Dr. Watson.” He said cryptically.

He led the way to a small room and offered him a set of mask, gown and gloves. He himself removed his outer clothing, meticulously disinfected his own hands and then covered himself up completely in the preventive gear. Professionalism took over and John followed protocol. He observed that Mycroft was taking all the precautions that one would while visiting a patient in intensive care. His natural curiosity surfaced. Good lord! He hoped it wasn’t Anthea this time. That would be awful. And in need of intensive care too. Fucking awful even though it would explain Mycroft’s actions. He fervently hoped not. ICU's were his professional nightmare: long waits and drawn out hopes and almost always sub-optimal results.

**%%%**

It was a rather large room and as is the case with residences converted to hospital rooms: they end up either too cluttered or too sterile; this one teetered on the latter. Right in the middle of a very bare room was a state of the art patient bed. It was surrounded by standard equipment for intensive care units: pulse oximeter, hemodynamic monitors, tracheal and chest tubes, intravenous fluid supply, et cetera. A man lay there. The blankets covering were quite flat around the torso. The body stretched the entire length of the bed (tall). The partly covered hand resting on the side was a mishmash of tubing, catheter, bruises and scars old and new. The fingers were rough like a labourer’s hands. They were clean of course, meticulously so, but it seemed like they weren’t used to being clean. All tiny cuts and callouses that someone had cleaned and disinfected. The face was half covered by the oxygen mask and the hair was closely cropped. The hair was dark with a very slight sprinkling of silver, just the beginning of it really.

**%%%**

John realised that he did not want to know. That he was denying it, pushing the moment of acknowledgement. Because underneath all those tubes and the blanket and gown and all those horrifying bruises and wounds lay a well loved and remembered body. He gave a small soft cry of distress and staggered. His eyes snapped close as he felt himself swaying. It was but a moment of weakness then he surged forward and looked at that dear face, his own crumpling in pain and fury.

*****

Mycroft felt John’s anguish cut though his shock. There would be anger too. He wasn’t sure when it would manifest itself and whom it would be directed against. But now he was assured that Sherlock would finally be safe. John Watson would not allow anything to happen to Sherlock. He breathed a sigh of relief. He gave John a minute to gather himself before reminding him of his own presence. He cleared his throat and walked up to the bed.

“The specialists tell me that his vitals are stable but there is still grave danger. We flew him back as soon as it was safe. The comprehensive report will be available whenever you want, it has the results of the investigations carried out so far along with the treatment provided. In the mean time I could give you a quick report as I understand.”

He waited for John to nod before continuing.

**^^^**

“He has a minor concussion. Blunt force trauma, thirteen days ago when he was captured. The stitches indicate the site. Two broken ribs on the right one on the left, the one on the left is less severe, there is also a cut there that had become infected (it has now been contained and sutured), the right arm is fractured in two places, two fingers on the same hand, left shoulder is severely inflamed but not fractured, multiple blows from fists or kicks in the abdomen, no major trauma to internal organs observed yet, there was blood initially but the urine has been normal for the last three days, another major cut was on the right calf, sutured, there are multiple minor cuts, scratches and bruises all over the body some of them possibly self-inflicted, his body was heavily infested with lice and ticks and hence all hair had to be completely shorn off, severe malnutrition, has been heavily smoking, there is a scar to indicate he has had intravenous narcotics at least once in the last six months but not recently, there were no drugs in his system when he was retrieved.” He paused then as if shoring up courage or considering his words carefully or something else, “There is no indication of sexual abuse. At any time in the recent past.”

**^^^**

“I will leave you now. Should you require press the blue button there and the nurse will be here. He is due to be checked on again in thirty minutes.”

He left quietly and made sure the door was closed firmly.

It was the closing of the old chapter and the beginning of a new one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is strange how long I have written and re-written this part. Yet, it is far from perfect. I was always shocked that Moftiss showed him being tortured in a dreary prison in one shot (bad enough that Mycroft had had to personally intervene) and the next he was back to being his sophisticated, perfectly coiffed, well dressed self. How was that possible? And why doesn't he have even a single scar on his body after all that? What were they - highly trained KGB/CIA types who could torture without leaving physical scars?
> 
> Sorry about the cliff hanger though. Wasn't meant to be one. Just wanted Sherlock back and for the next phase to start. Hopefully the wait will be a short one.
> 
> So what do you think? This is the part where it all gets hairy and so I'm bloody terrified.


	23. Nicks and cuts

Mycroft finished some calls as he waited for John. Anthea had refused to come. She had been furious, still was. “I will not be your fucking messenger. You want it quick and dirty you do it. At least have the fucking decency to tell him to his face you bloody coward.”

So here he was. Waiting for John’s anger over his deception regarding Sherlock’s ‘death’, waiting for him to accept his role as the primary physician (no one else would do), waiting to tell John that _it_ was over.

It was about twelve minutes later that John emerged looking for him. His face was stormy with anger and pain. He went over to the cabinet and poured himself a drink, drank it in one go and poured himself another. He walked across and sat on the chair facing Mycroft (not beside him on the couch). “Tell me everything.”

So Mycroft did. He revealed Moriarty’s threat against the three of them, Moriarty’s suicide, Sherlock’s planned escape including who was involved in it (Dr. Hooper would be another target for Watson ire now), Sherlock’s mission to dismantle the criminal organisation, the behind the scenes assistance his team had provided, the recent abuse Sherlock’s body faced at the hands of his captors, the threat of the final sniper still on the loose.

“He was afraid you would want to accompany him, Dr. Watson. He couldn’t afford to—”

“Ballocks! Let your brother make his own excuses for a change. He probably in his brilliance had a twisted logic to all this.”

Mycroft couldn’t argue and shut up.

“What was your excuse?”

This was it then. His cross to bear. He had promised Sherlock not to reveal anything to John and it would now be seen as his betrayal.

“I have none. We had a plan, I made a promise.”

“A promise based on the assumption that I couldn’t be trusted to keep my mouth shut, that I wouldn’t betray my friend, that I would what dance with joy on the streets instead of pretending to mourn —”

“You were and still are the most visible target.”

“— that even as a combat veteran I would be fucking bloody useless in the field, that I couldn’t protect even myself let alone Sherlock, that I know bugger all about stealth operations—”

“And what about Mrs Hudson and the DI?” Mycroft interrupted forcefully. “Could you have protected them? Your disappearance together… I don’t need to spell it out to you, you are far to intelligent and competent for that.”

“Even then it doesn’t make sense to not tell any of us. It was our life we should have made the choice.”

“Is it about not being told at all our is your pride hurt that Dr. Hooper was told?”

“Fuck you.”

It was a low blow. Unworthy of him but Mycroft couldn’t very well tell him that he had almost pled with his brother to choose an alternate plan. He was anyways on his path to hell so far as John Watson was concerned so what did it matter if he drew some of the fire away from Sherlock. Their breach would heal faster with a common foe once more.

John was taking deep breaths facing away from him, his fist clenching and unclenching. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Mycroft merely nodded. They did not have much time. He needed to be back in London. The whole trip to Serbia had been unplanned and his frequent absences to ensure Sherlock’s presence stayed a secret would have been noted. He needed to conclude this, all of this, fast.

“My apologies as well. I would like you to be his primary physician. You will have trained assistance. He still views other medical professionals hostilely. Should you decide against it, I hope you will at least stay for a while to aid his recuperation.”

“And my job at the A&E will be waiting once he is on his feet and there will have been a ready explanation for my absence,” John concluded sarcastically and not a little wearily.

Mycroft decided to forego any comment.

“Very well then, let me have all the reports, please.”

Mycroft handed him a folder and a laptop. “Please use this while you are here.”

John merely nodded.

“There are two nurses in rotation. They are housed in the southern wing since it is closer. One of them is with Sherlock right now. You will need to introduce yourself, I’m afraid. They know to expect you. Their own identification has been added to that folder. You have the room adjacent to Sherlock’s. It has all your things.” John’s head jerked up at that. He had never slept anywhere than Mycroft’s room the few times they had visited together. “Please do not hesitate to ask for anything we may have forgotten. I am afraid now I need to return to the city. Please excuse me, Dr. Watson.”

Mycroft stood to leave. There was so much to say and not enough time for any of it. He needed to end things now. He didn’t know how. He picked his jacket and with great deliberation put it on. _Useless dilly-dallying._ “I will come back as much as is possible. Either Anthea or I will be available on call at any time.”

He stared at John who still refused to look at him. He wished John would show his anger. He needed to take away something. Anything would be preferable right now. He cleared his throat and John finally looked up.

John was numb. But he did recognise that for some reason he had been moved out of Mycroft’s room. It wasn’t just expediency, he was sure. He also knew that Mycroft had called him nothing but Dr. Watson today. “Just one thing more. This…” he waved his hand between them, “is it… I mean we—”

“Of course. I understand.” Finally! He ignored John’s confusion and barrelled on. “We cannot continue as we were. That is fine by me. I do understand. Don’t worry, this is the last you shall hear of it from me. Good bye, Dr. Watson.”

The pain that flashed on that honest face was too much for Mycroft to bear. He stepped away and out as fast as he could. No, John Watson did not deserve a bastard like him. He should have…

 

It hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for all the angst but we expected it didn't we.  
> Yes, once Sherlock is conscious there will be some added idiotics. I am sure many of you are groaning now but it is what it is I'm afraid. There is quite a bit to come so please brace yourselves. It is going to get rather ugly. Keep cuddling your inner John's and Mycroft's ok.
> 
> Just let me know if any of it is OOC please.


	24. I could heal with you but I don't want to

He had told himself he would let go without a fuss. And now he had. He should be proud of himself.

He turned his eyes to the folder in his hands. Proof that Sherlock was indeed alive. Proof that his guilt was much worse. Sherlock hadn’t killed himself because John hadn’t cared enough; Sherlock had spent more than two years away from home, friends and family, hunting and being hunted by some of the most powerful and vicious criminals in this world because John had been threatened and poor broken John could not be trusted to save himself forget about protecting Sherlock. There was no time to wallow in guilt or self-pity. He had already failed as a soldier let him not fail as a doctor.

He went back to Sherlock’s room and knocked for the nurse.

*****

Their routine was soon established. Sherlock was in a drug-induced stupor at first and not truly unconscious. He would drift in and out. Soon they eased the opioids and dosed him only when he needed to sleep. He was still on pain killers but even those would be tapered off in time. The anti-biotics were taking a toll on his already messed up digestion and so the IV would stay for a much longer time. A well-nourished healthy soldier would have been occasionally out of bed by now.

John had spent all that time first studying Sherlock’s condition and getting to work with the nurses assisting him. While he had needed to be up to date on the latest in trauma medicine he still spent more time reading up as much as possible and learning from the two nurses who were more than happy to share their experiences and knowledge. One seldom got to do that in a regular hospital with dozens of cases and everyone stretched for time.

The hospital had been informed that he had had a minor accident, had wrenched his shoulder, and that he would be back in a few weeks time. He was glad he hadn’t taken up full time tenure there, as it was always hell whenever a doctor went on unplanned leave.

*****

Anthea visited a few times and no one else. John wasn’t expecting anyone else. He knew that there was a camera in Sherlock’s room that had been focused on his head but could be swivelled to ‘see’ the door. At the moment he wasn’t fit to see anyone else.

*****

Once Sherlock was more ‘awake’ his hands were full. It hadn’t been very unexpected but Sherlock refused to allow the nurses to do even simple chores like changing his IV tube without John present. Once they stopped his opiods completely he would wake so easily that some nights John had to sleep on the bunk bed beside him.

It was strange knowing that he had willingly left him behind when he went to fight their battles and yet now clung to him whether he was asleep or awake and expected John to be there. Stranger was that Sherlock had made him witness his death without compunction and but now refused to allow anyone else near him but John. John had become as much his doctor as his nurse. He knew that part of it was Sherlock's history with medical professionals. But then what did that make John?

He was angry but his professional ethics and his guilt weighed on him. Plus no matter how angry he was he could never abandon Sherlock. He truly loved him. He did not need to do any more than follow the tenets of his professional oath.

*****

“You are angry with me.”

“Possibly.”

“Don’t prevaricate, John. If you are angry say so and do what you typically do.”

“Really Sherlock? Typically? Do _you_ typically go and kill yourself? Do you typically make me see it? Do you typically lie to me about being dead?”

“I know that Mycroft told you why it was necessary. What was so—”

“Oh yes! I am such a pathetic ninny that I wouldn’t have been able to contain my joy that you weren’t dead. So of course the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t tell me.”

“Sarcasm, John?”

“I thought it was the truth about me?”

“I was protecting you.”

“Really? How nice. You were protecting a useless broken toy soldier were you? Someone who has never wielded a gun or thrown a punch or gone to bloody fucking war?”

John's voice had definitely raised more than a pitch.

“This wasn’t a war or a street fight.”

“No it fucking wasn’t, Sherlock which is why one wonders why you thought it was safer for you to go alone.”

“I needed you here.”

“Doing what mourning you like a widow?”

“Is that what you did?”

“Fuck you.” John turned away.

“Walk away then. Finally you exhibit your _typical_ behaviour.”

John whipped his head back and snarled, “Be glad that you are my patient currently, Sherlock Holmes.”

“You won’t hurt me, John. And once you agree that my decision was the right one you will—”

“What part of your fucking decision was right? I would have happily thrown myself in to protect you, you bloody twat! Was your own diagnosis that I craved danger flawed? Was my loyalty to you in question? Have I not killed for you before? Just accept that you were a selfish git who always does his own thing no matter what the cost to himself and others. How did you dying before me keep me safe? **There are dangers other than dying you stupid cunt. I have been facing them each day,** ” John shouted.

“Doctor Watson? Everything alright?”

“I’m sorry Ryan. Yes, yes. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Maybe you should sit here for a while.”

“Don’t you dare, John! Finish this now or by God I will ensure that you have to tranquilize me.”

It was no empty threat and John’s jaw clenched in anger as the nurse hovered in the doorway. He knew that Sherlock could and would make life hell if he wished even in his current state. It was also possible that his flatmate would never get why he was angry. He politely turned and nodded to the nurse in assurance and then turned back as the door was shut again.

Sherlock was trying to sit up and so he walked and inclined the bed correctly. When he was done, Sherlock reached out and held his hand, “I’m sorry, John. I did not mean to provoke you. I simply wanted you to speak to me. You haven’t said a word to me other than as a doctor. It’s been a very long time John. I miss speaking to you. I… I missed you.”

John looked at his friend with surprise. They had never spoken about such things. Their friendship and loyalty had always been understood. Plus, Sherlock never apologised. If required he did so in such a roundabout manner that always left John exasperated. Even more he wasn’t used to Sherlock showing any tenderness. The last declaration had him gobsmacked. Sherlock’s eyes seldom lied to him. After all this time he knew when Sherlock wasn't being sincere. He felt a lump in his throat and hastily cleared it, patting Sherlock’s hand and nodding absent-mindedly, fussing over his sheet to reassure himself, looking anywhere but at him.

“Ok. Ok. Thanks. I missed you too... Just don’t do it again ok. Don’t rile me up cos I’m still mad at you, please.”

“I won’t.”

“…”

"John."

"..."

“Will you speak to me?”

“Um. Ok.” John sat down but was still looking elsewhere.

“Can I… or maybe you could tell me all that has happened since? I know you’ve joined an A&E and—”

John laughed out and finally looked at him, “So just fucking deduce me, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smirked, “I just overheard that actually."

John laughed again. He couldn't help himself.

"Tell me please, John.”

“Ok so about my work then?”

“To begin with, but other things too, please. Boring social stuff included,” he added with a grin. “And John...” he sobered.

“Yeah?”

“You can ask me too. If you want to. But later.”

“Ok. Thanks. I think.” He fidgeted in his chair and took a deep breath. “So yeah I work three shifts a week at St. Thomas’ A&E. And the rest of the time I... Did you know that Greg, that’s DI Lestrade you git and you know it. Don’t smile, it’s no longer funny. Yeah so Greg was suspended for a while because…”

“Because of his association with a fraud.”

“Yeah, and they were also going over all your cases with the Met...”

So they talked. Or rather Sherlock listened and John talked. At first, John gave Sherlock only perfunctory highlights till Sherlock growled over the lack of details and he started to tell him more. But he stuck to the _war-room_ and the A &E all the way to Greg's reinstatement, and then asked Sherlock to take his meds and rest for a while.

Sherlock of course pouted and extracted a promise. John happily countered and promised to be there when he woke up so long as Sherlock let the nurses help from then on. Sherlock agreed and immediately asked him to ask the nurse in, insisting that he knew John wanted to go out. So he left Ryan ‘on duty’ and went out to the garden behind the house.

He needed to think. He was still angry. It wasn’t easy to let all the hurt go. He was truly happy that Sherlock wasn’t dead. So happy that he could have cried. But the deception and the feeling that this particular man had found him so incompetent that he was left behind would not leave him. He knew that Mycroft’s rejection was adding to it all but he refused to address it and had done so for all the days till today. He couldn’t face it. He told himself he needed to concentrate on Sherlock for the time being.

He wasn’t surprised that the berk had so easily gotten him talking and laughing as if they were back in Baker Street and the last years hadn’t happened. It was that easy.

It had always been that easy between them. Even back then Sherlock would do the most outrageous things and eventually John would forgive him. But he still couldn’t reconcile the person who had played soothing harmonies to prevent his nightmares on ‘danger nights’ with someone who had abandoned him to the same nightmares (actually worse since they now featured him). Baskerville should have warned him of course but even then Sherlock had been so contrite. He always was. Once he realised the true extent of the harm he had caused he was always genuinely sorry. Which did not make it alright for him to hurt people in the first place of course.

Damn! John knew he would run in circles over this. He needed Sherlock to understand and acknowledge the hurt he had caused. He wanted to be able to forgive him but only after Sherlock truly repented. But he did not want to spell it all out to him and he did not want to do it at all when he was still John’s patient because he was a bastard enough to use it to his advantage and get his forgiveness like today. He wished Sherlock to realise it all on his own which would happen only when Hell froze over and he needed a way to stop hurting so badly which would again have the same chances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm no professional and hence all those medical meets will be suitably vague. Just know that John and the two nurses will get Sherlock back on his feet. It will be a bit slow due to the extent of the injuries but but but knowing our favourite detective it may happen a tad bit faster on simple stubborn grounds.
> 
> John of course is once again taking unnecessary hurt and guilt on himself. He is angry too and thank god for that cos I couldn't stomach a saintly John (puhleeze).
> 
> With regards to Mycroft as you can see he's burying it all and hurting and angry but is refusing to even acknowledge it all. It will happen don't worry my dears cos theirs is the story. But...
> 
> Sherlock of course knows all about manipulating John and right now he thinks he has done the right thing. But he still needs John and his care and companionship and stubbornly demands it. In my 'reality' he will understand how much he hurt John. But again it will take time. 
> 
> But will he accept that he was at fault regarding the whole not taking John along? Hmmmm
> 
> Hope you all have a nice week. Let me know what you think. Its such a pleasure to see you all getting so close to this story.  
> Hugs, tea (or coffee or plain water or fresh juice or a bowl of soup) and sweetest of happiness.


	25. Sherlock heals and John continues to hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all
> 
> I hope this isn't confusing cos of switching POVs. First is all Sherlock and then its John in the last part. But if it is give me a knock and I'll try and make it clearer
> 
> Sorry I'm only giving plotty details and not technical ones but thats what i know.

John was unhappy. It was not just about him. He was concerned of course. When it came to Sherlock John was always concerned. But being a doctor he could see his progress first hand and John Watson was rather pragmatic in such matters. Plus Sherlock was doing all he could to get out of this tedious place and return to his Work. No John was concerned and still angry but his unhappiness came from another source. It would be difficult to get him to tell Sherlock of course. Under other circumstances he would have said that being told was rather boring but not when it concerned John. He had always known at a glance when John had had a bad day at the clinic, or Harriet had called, or date had been awful, etc. But whatever this was stemmed from the time of his absence and so he had no data and he knew John was being deliberately opaque. Well they still had a few days here and if not then he was sure that once back in London all would be clear.

John’s presence did make this less tedious of course. It always did. He was glad John hadn’t gone ahead and found himself a long-term girlfriend or horrors gotten married. That would have rendered him useless to the Work. Well he had not been making surreptitious calls, or exchanging texts or smiling absent minded, and he had not tried to excuse himself from Sherlock’s presence either. So all was well on that front.

It had been interesting to hear all that had happened in his absence. Those idiots at Met had of course made more of a mess than usual. Well he himself was to blame for that given he actually had told John that he was a fraud. He of course would have dismissed it but it was no surprise that so many had believed Moriarty’s lies. People were idiots after all.

Hmmm… perhaps it wouldn’t be prudent to tell Lestrade or Mrs. H. John didn’t seem too happy that he had done it for his sake, and if John couldn’t understand then there was no chance that anyone else would. Perhaps their reactions would be even more tedious than John’s. Hudders might even cry! And Lestrade could out shout even John when angry. Unacceptable. No telling anyone else.

 

He truly couldn’t see why John was so angry though. He had been the one to tell Sherlock that one takes up pain and discomfort for their friend and makes sacrifices. John was a friend and John always tried to protect Sherlock. Sometime John did not wait for the police but shot at or roughed up suspects on his own simply on the basis of Sherlock’s deductions or because they posed a threat to Sherlock. True that they wouldn’t have been alone with said criminals if Sherlock had bothered telling the police but there was hardly any time for all that boring stuff.

John still had horrible nightmares and going back would have just made it all worse. Sherlock’s mind was far more disciplined he would soon delete all unnecessary experiences.

 

There had been times when he had missed John terribly. Had even missed Mrs H once or twice. And that one time he had to speak to the local constabulary he had almost yearned for Lestrade. He had also at times appreciated Mycroft’s meddling. Not that he would ever say it to anyone but his minions could get surprisingly accurate and relevant information and could relay it in the most precise terms.

Had Mycroft been there? He had a vague notion that he had been right there in the torture chamber with him before he was brought home. But he couldn’t be sure. His mind had shamefully supplied him such images before. Either John or young My, before he became pompous, preachy and lost his weight and senses, would be there with him when things became… unbearable. No it couldn’t have been him; this Mycroft would not spoil his manicure.

*****

As his recovery progressed so did his mental faculties and soon Sherlock was completely his usual acerbic self. But even so John could see that there was a softer edge to all that he did now. He deduced his nurses, but did so only to irritate and not to be cruel. There was a definite line and now he stuck to it. John hoped it was a lasting effect of his time away but couldn’t be sure and truly did not care. His friend was back and would soon be well enough to resume his life. That was far more important. John was more wary of Sherlock discovering his ‘relationship’ with Mycroft. He should of course say his erstwhile relationship given that it was now definitely over. Still he knew it would be unpleasant. Sherlock had always been scathing about his girlfriends and dates. Sherlock had always been scornful with his brother. Ergo, he would be hateful about John dating no not dating rather shagging Mycroft. It would be unpleasant and it would hurt. There was no way to stop it unfortunately.

 

Sherlock had been surprisingly modest about describing his time away. His usual dramatic flair was absent. He still looked at John for praise for his deductions and clever tactics to bring about the downfall of criminals and he still made rapid fire observations and narratives but he downplayed the physical aspects of it all. As if they were either too tedious or unimportant. As a doctor and a soldier John knew that wasn’t true. Even beyond this latest set of injuries, the traces of the time away were easy to spot. And Sherlock had now started to get restless in his sleep. Possible PTSD. John would have to keep an eye on that as well. The nurses too had made the same observations and cautioned him. Once recovered, John would push Sherlock to see a therapist. Not some poor over worked NHS worker too tired to do more than mandated but someone who would give it their all, someone who knew combat and going under cover perhaps. He was sure Mycr… Sherlock’s brother could easily get him the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that is my head canon and perhaps I'm being an idealist. Maybe.  
> But I think Sherlock would change but still may not always understand. I am sure he would be unapologetic about what he did and has some twisted logic as to why John shouldn't have accompanied him. (I may not agree with the reason but I really need to find at least some half-baked Holmesian logic instead of hating him forever so yea this is just all for me)
> 
> John would be afraid of Sherlock's reaction to him and Mycroft (we all are mate, we all are). He would also be trying to bury it all away and suffer in silence. 
> 
> For the sake of this story, Sherlock still doesn't know that Mycroft came to rescue him personally.
> 
> Sherlock would suffer PTSD even if he thinks he won't. I don't know much about PTSD since I am not a professional and have only had experiences with near ones after a close shave say a traffic accident etc. There is one survivor of abuse in the family who still shouts out in sleep. (it's been close to thirty years since she has been out of their power but...) The only soldier in my immediate family doesn't talk of it but has become a somewhat different person from when I grew up with him. I don't know if it's trauma or simply growing up.
> 
> I do know that many people misunderstand PTSD as weakness. It is **NOT**. So Sherlock is never going to think so either. But he may be mistakenly assuming that he would be better at handling it than John because he can delete such stuff. Thats all.
> 
> My reading tells me that PTSD does manifest in many people and the symptoms and severity vary. It isn't only limited to soldiers and civilians affected by war, or victims of gun crime, or witnesses to violent death, it could be caused by domestic abuse, accidents, or simply when something almost happens - like you or someone close almost died (Nothing actually happened and there not even a physical scratch). I won't harp on about it in the fic cos like I said I don't want to paint an unrealistic picture of things I know little of. But I hope that it will help Sherlock and John understand each other.
> 
> Do keep the comments coming please. They make this even more fulfilling.  
> Thanks so much.


	26. Anything for you brother dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't been to London here's a titbit: [The DLR](https://tfl.gov.uk/dlr/route/dlr/) that John refers to is Dockland Light Railways a relatively newer part of the London tube/underground/metro. Its one of those lines which is over ground for quite a bit and you can see parts of the business district as you travel by it. My friends working in investment banking in the 'City' (as the Londoners like to call it) lived in East London in and around the Docklands (seems popular with that set) and so introduced me to it. There is a sharp bend somewhere along the route which is amazing to ride through if you are a five year old (or a 35 year old who refuses to grow up).

It wasn’t easy living with an invalid Sherlock but John was perhaps the only one in the world insane enough to do it happily.

Slowly but surely they had almost reached the same ease in cohabitation that they had before… _before._  The nurses were now used to the doctor leaving the patient's room in a huff almost every other day. He would then invariably go out for a walk. Within a few minutes of his arrival, there had been no question who was in charge even when he had milked their knowledge of treating sick patients to learn more. He of course was always infinitely polite with them, always professional and friendly and a damn good doctor if they may say so. They were also used to the patient swinging between his most meek and pliant behaviour and spitting insults stinging enough to deter Florence Nightingale. That the former happened either when the doctor was present or when he was in ear shot was obvious. What was not so obvious but soon emerged was that he actually hoped that they would carry tales of the latter to the poor doctor. However, they were veterans both of their professions as well as life and soon discovered it and stopped reporting even the one sentences they had earlier told the doctor (they had thought it part of the symptoms, obviously NOT).They had an ongoing bet which perhaps would never get resolved. One of them had commented that poor Doc John (their name for him) was heart broken and the other said of course it was the jerk in the patients bed, the first one disagreed. They were just friends. Very close and perhaps very old friends but just that. So they had agreed upon the symptoms but not upon the root cause and a friendly wager had been born.

John had listened to seemingly endless days of Sherlock’s efforts to locate and destroy Moriarty’s power structure for good. He understood now that, given the structure and sturdy networks that very intelligent criminal had created, his instructions would have been carried out even after his death as a warning to everyone not to thwart them and that his criminal legacy would have endured for many years unless cut off at the ground itself. Not that those crimes would never ever be committed again but just that smaller groups of criminals could create less havoc than large organized ones with seemingly a single sense of direction. He knew that even one loose thread could still come back to haunt them and endanger all of them once more. He stayed angry with being left out and being lied to but as Sherlock dug for as many details as possible of John’s life in the past few years he was somewhat soothed. He realised that his friend was genuinely interested unlike previously when he would have dismissed it all as ‘tedious’ or ‘boring’. On the contrary, Sherlock seemed hungry for the mundane. It reminded him of himself after his first tour. He had taken the DLR and simply ridden it end to end some four or five times. 

Soon enough, in spite of all his precautions, he slipped up once or twice. It wasn’t obvious that they were... had been lovers but even the simplest of minds would have gathered that John and Mycroft had become _friends_ and that they did spend time together. Sherlock Holmes of course was far from a simple mind and read chapters into those few missteps.

A simple experiment was needed. He called Mycroft and asked for him to visit. The excuse was rather genuine and indeed truthful - though far from the only reason and could have easily been dealt with over phone or via the 'minions'. Sherlock needed to discuss the remaining sniper and also their plans for returning to London.

*****

Mycroft knew that it was hardly that simple. His brother would have rather done the whole thing over an exchange of texts or even conceded to a call but a visit was hardly necessary. No it was fairly obvious that it was a ruse. Either the good doctor had slipped up or Mycroft had been unable to completely erase all the clues of the Doctor’s erstwhile visits to his home. And now Sherlock wanted to twist the knife.

He was rather eager to see Sherlock _in flesh_ again of course, a camera, no matter how powerful, can convey only so much after all. But that would only end up alerting someone somewhere that Mycroft Holmes had been visiting his country home rather more often than usual and that was not a risk worth taking. So he had stayed away. If A thought that he had other reasons to avoid the place and other people to avoid as well then  she was mistaken.

*****

Once they were seated, Mycroft handed over a copy of all the information his team had gathered about Col. Sebastian Moran. The suspected third and final sniper and also most probably the final loose thread. The only difference between this and the numerous such visits to Baker Street ~~was his sharper awareness of the presence of John~~ was that he brought two copies of it instead and ensured that Dr. Watson received one as well. It would not do to leave the doctor out of any plans made both for his brother’s welfare as well as the welfare of the recently healed relations between the flatmates. He also gave them the details of the plan in place to reinstate Sherlock in London. Sherlock had some questions for him and even one for John.

Mycroft waited for the other shoe to drop. He had far more experience (and patience) than Sherlock. He just hoped that his brother would do the doctor the courtesy of leaving him out of what promised to be a rather painful monologue. By the time dinner was over he was certain the Sherlock had not known much beforehand but had realised that there had been more to John’s acquaintance with Mycroft and had now deduced almost everything ~~save the most pertinent~~.

The dinner had been rather mundane considering that the two Holmes brothers were in the same room. Perhaps Sherlock’s prolonged absence and his injuries had softened them both or perhaps as usual there were whole dialogues being exchanged while he remained oblivious. Nevertheless John was glad that he was not forced in the middle of a petty sibling quarrel again. It was painful enough to see Mycroft again and pretend a distant acquaintance. It was harder not to notice the signs of stress on his face and in his body. Perhaps all exes found it so. Perhaps only the deluded ones like him did. He was glad that Sherlock had not made much of his slip-ups. He was sure that they had been noted and lodged somewhere in a drawer in that mind-palace and would be some day plucked out to be wielded unexpectedly and perhaps even hurtfully. He hoped he would have fortified himself enough by that time and he hoped even more that it did not happen in Mycroft’s presence.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes once again directing a reprimand at his brother. It was easy to see what had happened. His John, his only friend and ally had been seduced by promises of human comfort and companionship. He had been vulnerable and his brother had exploited the situation to secure John’s loyalty before Sherlock returned. Despicable. And now Mycroft was _rationing_ their newfound connection to emotionally blackmail John to do his bidding. No wonder John was so miserable. His loyalties were tugging him in opposite directions. It was untenable and if John was foolish enough to have been taken in then it behoved his flatmate to protect him from his own weaknesses.

He let his brother know that he _knew_ and then requested John, "I'd like to sit out a bit, John. Mycroft can keep me company. You don’t mind do you? I’m sure you need a break from me." He grinned endearingly. John clearly had no intention of spending more time than absolutely necessary in Mycroft's presence and hastily exited mumbling his good nights with warnings not to stay up too long. 

John was sure that was simply a thinly disguised attempt at getting him out of the room but even so he was glad to step away. He almost turned back to tell them that if one of them was planning to kill himself then to kindly do so when he was away, leave a note how long they planned to stay dead and give him ample time to take acting lessons in the art of pretending to mourn. Yeah, sometimes his inner 16 year old turned up at rather inconvenient times.

"You couldn't keep away could you?"

Mycroft merely raised a cold eyebrow arrogantly. 

"John is not a toy to be fought over. Grow up, Mycroft. I will not have you hurting him by your childish displays of superiority. You are making him miserable. Stop using him to get to me. Stay away from him."

There was a small flicker of anger on that glass like visage, which perhaps three people in the world would have noticed. One of them was of course facing him. Before Sherlock could understand the reason behind it, Mycroft gave a sardonic nod and said, "Of course, dear brother. Anything for you. After all it is always about you." He stood, turned and left. 

A minute later the older nurse was there to assist him back to his room and prepare him for bed. Sherlock was too angry to dwell too much. He recalled John's unhappy face during dinner. By the time the painkillers took over, Sherlock had decided to return them both to Baker St. as soon as possible. 

*****

Mycroft couldn’t have been happier. All his plans were falling into place. Sherlock was finally acknowledging his feelings for the doctor. The doctor would be thrilled that his loyalties and feelings had been returned. Sherlock’s sacrifice would hopefully yield some positive influence there as well. The doctor of course could hold a grudge and wasn’t known to let anger go easily but if Mycroft played his cards right then most of it would be directed at him instead. Yes, he was sure that in the larger scheme of things the doctor would be happier now. The shadow that Mycroft had seen on Dr. Watson’s ~~dear~~ face was just his ~~hopeful~~ imagination. It must be tiring to wait hand and foot on Sherlock who was always very demanding, more so of his flatmate and friend. And of course there was the latent anger at his deception in not telling him about Sherlock that had made the doctor rather uncommunicative, more so than normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm posting shorter chapters sorry.  
> Yes, these are important bits and now that we have all three principal players active their POVs will need to be spelt out but I feel these episodes cannot be dragged out unnecessarily so I'm editing out large wordy chunks out. Also the story is now gathering pace and I feel things need to happen instead of it all being in their minds alone. After all this is what we have been waiting for right? 
> 
> Mycroft clearly has gone delusional and i shall say no more, the man is an idiot  
> Sherlock is still not thinking in a fully matured way and of course thinks his deductions and actions on behalf of John are right but will hopefully realise it (soon?)  
> John will you please stop being all nice guy and just vent it all out please and demand instead of giving way cos you are seriously giving me heartburn
> 
> My concerns still remain not to go OOC while ensuring that all my pet peeves are taken care of.
> 
> Hoping to keep hearing from all of you.  
> Pretty sure I'm making enough groan worthy mistakes in grammar and typos or inconsistent tense or voice or person so do let me know. There is no such thing as too anal cos recall darlings we are writing M/M. ;-)  
> Love you all


	27. Some things never change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or maybe they do.  
> In this chapter I bring Sherlock being Sherlock and yet not very. You will see.  
> Just hope it's not OOC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised that I've published a few shorts related to this fic which may now make more sense. A few links if you'd like to read them again.  
> John POV - [ _John_.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6975046)  
>  Mycroft POV - [ _Guilt_.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8252716)

Sherlock was in the talking-to-John about the facts of the case stage.

“So this is the thread that you found.”

“Yeah, Lestrade and I, months ago. Glad the work we did in the war-room has yielded results.”

“Interesting, Moran who we are pretty sure is our man is Col. Sebastian ‘Tiger’ Moran erstwhile of the Royal Army, a prolific soldier and sniper. When he left the army, some say he was dishonourably discharged; he slipped through the cracks and indeed went straight to the underground. His birth and later income had made him accustomed to privileged living and the only employers who required his skill and could afford his price were definitely not populating corporate boardrooms. Perhaps some of his contracts had come from them but his direct employers were always well and truly on this side of the law. He preferred it to be so. Liars and pretenders made him antsy. All this has been rather easy to gather, I suppose.”

“Your brother’s team is highly capable. Yes.”

“The links between him and Moriarty have been proven and they are almost sure that he had been in Moriarty’s pay for at least the past seven years before _Mr. Brooks’_ disappearance. Also equally definite is that he had been at ‘the pool’ and then always somewhere near you, John, beginning with the day of…”

“Yes.”

What had brought him to their radar was of course the illegal high stakes ‘gambling’ ring that he was rumoured to be operating. Given the high profile of some of the ‘players’ it could hardly have stayed a complete secret. Nevertheless there were only whispers. Natural disasters, economic swings, political turmoil, all were wagered upon. Staggering large amounts of money changed hands and most of it was either black money in off-shore accounts, ‘inheritances’, and some times priceless artefacts. Most of those involved could afford to lose. Those that couldn’t, lost far more than a mere wager and lost it all for good. There was no question of non-payment. 

*****

Sherlock was now almost physically there. Moran was surely in London. A plan was in place and Anthea had come down to discuss it with Sherlock.

The plan was that a rumour regarding Sherlock’s return would be floated only in the underground. The police were likely to ignore it and the criminals would either do the same or try to verify it, especially the more powerful ones. Given that a sniper couldn’t work from just anywhere it was likely that Moran would have scoped specific locations around John’s routine. Sherlock and John would return to London and stay at Baker St. itself. Moran should have figured a spot there too and hopefully would try. The duo would only act as bait to draw him out. They were NOT to try and hunt him.

John had asked Sherlock, “Do you think he will try the other two again? I mean Mrs. Hudson and Greg?”

“Most probably not. But it may be worthwhile to remove them from the scene. I have come across his reputation. He is known to move decisively and fast.”

“So once we return, there won’t be much time. Ok. How about Molly?”

*****

John's heart pounded as he ran across the street. He had fortunately thought of looking out of the window after the door slammed. He even banged on Mrs Hudson’s door as he rushed past it.

They had arrived at 221B less than two days back. Mrs. Hudson had been ‘called away’ to her sister’s and so the tears and reproach would mercifully wait. A rather young looking agent was now installed in her flat as a nephew or something. She had of course insisted on calling up John. She had sounded rather too thrilled in John’s opinion to be involved in all the cloak-and-dagger goings on at Baker St. and could almost see her all knowing smirk when she spoke over the phone. _‘Just to let you know dear. Mycroft needs my flat for a few weeks and I’m off. He had me call in a plumber to fix something in your flat too.’_ She of course would blow a valve when she knew the whole truth.

*****

Sherlock knew it would be the empty flat across the street one level above theirs. It had a small window that looked into their living room. Six of the flats in the same building were occupied and the shop on street level did brisk business in used books. The one on level with them of course would soon be occupied by agents, like the one in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He had yet to meet her ‘nephew’. Moran would sense danger and disappear. He had a very small window. Mycroft was planning to start spreading the word through his channels underground. But he had been one up. Wiggins and others had already spread the word that he was back and now he was sure that the best place to wait would be that flat across the street. He told John as he rolled down his sleeves and buttoned them, putting on his jacket and shoes. John heard the door slam and rushed down. He knew at once and for once looked out of the window to see Sherlock crossing the road. Bloody buggering fuck! He called Anthea immediately and alerted her.

“Take your gun, doctor,” was the only reply.

Shit! He was losing precious seconds. He followed across and up the stairs.

A gap, fuck yeah. Fuck! Sherlock was already in there. He was on his knees hands clasped behind his head. With a mad man waving a gun. And at least two fucking civilian hostages! A parent and a child perhaps. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. He quickly typed it all to Anthea.

Within less than a minute Mycroft’s agents joined him (not the ‘nephew’ though) quietly and proceeded to insert themselves into the flat next door. There was a common vent that had been plastered over, but could easily be broken through. He was told to wait for a signal and then bust the door.

His phone screen blinked with an incoming call. _Shit!_ Thank God he had it on silent and had been paying attention. Unknown number. On some instinct he quietly padded two flights down before he accepted the call. Just as he was tapping the screen, he saw Donovan who didn’t look too surprised. She had three other officers with her. He gestured for quiet and clicked to connect putting the phone immediately on low volume speaker. These walls weren’t too thick after all.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Capt. Watson. I know you are in the building so could you please come up and join us?”

Donovan shook her head and gestured away as if towards 221. She also asked two of the others to go up and typed furiously into her cell.

“Ummm sorry, but who is this?”

The man (Moran?) laughed, “C’mon Captain. Most army surgeons are rather intelligent. Do me the same courtesy. Come and join us and I promise you Holmes wont be harmed. Not even a scratch.”

Donovan repeated her gesture vigorously and mouthed _You are there._

Not understanding fully, but trusting her he hoped he was getting her hint and spoke again, “Yes, I am at 221 again. And yes I am in the flat below but I am not going to come up if someone hostile is there in my flat, am I?”

Donovan gave him a thumbs up and a nod.

“Ah I see, my mistake. So why don’t you come to the window of 221B and prove it?”

“No sorry. Not unless I know what this is about.”

“Do not try my patience Captain. Come to the window and you will see your friend. He has some company other than me, one of them a child. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, yes. Please don’t do anything. I’m coming. I’ll be there. Please wait for just a minute.”

Donovan nodded approvingly. She looked to be concentrating as if for a signal. Then it all happened rather quickly. They heard a sharp noise. The fire of a sniper rifle? There was a shout and a scream from above and they rushed up. The two policemen had busted the door and the agents too had cracked the plastered vent and were already in. A man who John assumed to be Moran had his sturdy arm wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and a gun was in his hand. Sherlock’s hands were still held behind his head so they were possibly tied in some way. _Damn and fuck._ There were two civilians and yup one of them was a child of no more than ten. They too were tied up and it was clear now that the mother had screamed. Both were fortunately shielded by the agents’ bodies and were huddled in one corner.

Sherlock was clearly struggling for breath. John took aim.

*****

They arrested Moran and quickly rushed him to the ambulance. The bleeding from his hand and shoulder was profuse. The bullet had cleanly pierced one to lodge into the other. The child had escaped with not even a scratch (thank gods for small mercies. But he could of course have nightmares from non physical wounds). The mother had a bruise on her cheek and temple and her hands had been taped together. Once again the psychological wounds would be far worse.

One of the paramedics was giving Sherlock a thorough once over under John's stern eye. He sulked and glowered till he noticed the yarders' eyes on him. They were sneaking glances and whispering even as they secured and processed the site. Then he lifted his chin in defiance and waited for the examination to finish. Sherlock’s hands had been tied behind his head and then the rope was tied around his neck. The bruises from the rope were terrible to look at. The para gave him the all-ok and he heaved himself off dramatically giving John a single glance before starting to walk.

“Why didn’t you tell Mycroft or wait for me to do so?”

“You are the target, not I. He wouldn’t have killed me.”

John wanted to bang his head against a door or maybe Sherlock’s head.

They had to take a bit of a circuitous route via the back door given the commotion at the front door and were emerging from the narrow alley between the buildings when Greg got off from his car and almost immediately spotted them. He walked straight towards them and before either could react aimed a hard punch at Sherlock who nearly fell onto John behind him since he wasn’t expecting it.

“You tosser! You absolute tosser. You fucking stay away from me do you hear or I'll tear you limb from limb.”

And then Sherlock was grabbed and clasped in arms that were shaking rather badly. 

“Bloody fucking idiot, you deserve a thumping, bloody fucking git pretending to be dead and putting us all through that when you should have been clearing off your bloody name. I don't care what you did in the meantime but that was bloody cowardly and I...”

Then he gave Sherlock’s back a big thump cleared his threat and said, “Ok then I'm coming with you. Your home is being processed of course but the flat below should be ok. And you'd better tell me all.”

_Wait what? Their home_. John looked up to see the hole and the cracks spilling out from it on one of their windows. _Fuck fuck fuck. It was Moriarty all over again._

He turned to see Sherlock narrowing his eyes, “Hmmm this precinct is no longer yours is it. Donovan got a promotion. Well done Sally. Did she sell you down the river for it or...”

“Oh get off it you berk. You know very well that even I got promoted. Ta very much. It is fairly recent of course but I am sure John would have told you that. In fact, he was preening like a parent was our John. Wasn't anyone who didn't hear about his mate's promotion. So fuck you. Plus you know Sally too well. She got it all on her own merit, ok. Don't even insinuate otherwise.”

They were now across the road and in the apartment. Mrs. Hudson’s door was ajar. After a quick look inside Sherlock took the steps up. He stopped suddenly at their open door. His body was noticeably tense. John caught up and looked in. The room had a few yarders as well and right at the centre of the floor was a body. _Wait_. Not a body. It was a model of sorts. It… It looked like him. In that dim light it looked like he had been hit in his head and lay there dead. Fuck! No wonder Sherlock was… Wait _Sherlock_.

“Hey! You ok?”

He merely received a sharp nod.

“Do you need to be here?”

A shake in negative.  

“Come along then. Let’s get some tea ok.”

Sherlock looked at him and almost smiled.

Lestrade had joined them and was clearly torn between knowing the entire story of Sherlock’s clearly fake death and a crime scene.

“C’mon, Greg. Donovan will tell you the rest. Or perhaps this git will. Come down for a cuppa. Two shocks in a day are enough even for a hardened copper like you.”

They trooped down again and John thanked his landlady’s efficient organization as he gave a quick look at the bruise on Sherlock's jaw and got him an ice pack from her freezer. He then proceeded to make some tea for the three of them. 

They first got Lestrade to talk. Donovan had alerted Greg and he had come rushing to see Sherlock for himself.

Then John asked Sherlock to explain the day’s events next.

“I told you John. I deduced it all out loud and told you he would be across the street and only then did I start to wear my shoes. You cannot blame me this time.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I didn’t even know you were speaking to me. I was upstairs.”

“Is that my fault too?” Sherlock roared and John realised that Sherlock was still upset. Oh god. Sherlock’s worst fear had almost come true. The tableau of John’s death had been rather realistic after all. He needed Sherlock to concentrate on something else.

“Ok sorry, sorry. You are right. I'm sorry. So what happened then? Please. I know only parts of it.”

“I asked you to come.”

“Yes, yes I know. I’m sure you did. What then?”

“When I went there Moran had those two tied up and he asked me to kneel. I knew you were coming and you would be safer with me, John. He had a rifle trained at our window. You were better away from our flat.”

“Of course. So he tied you then?”

Sherlock gave him his patented _don’t be an idiot_ look and it was almost industrial strength by now, which comforted John somewhat.

“He cut off the tape from the aunt’s hands and asked her to tie me and made sure she wrapped it around my neck so I couldn’t pull them off without choking myself. Then he taped her hands again. He was pointing the gun at the boy all that time and I was too far off to be able to do anything. And she is his aunt not mother because—”

“Yeah, I saw the photo too.” John grinned. He had seen the photo but hadn’t put it all together until Sherlock had pointed out the obvious to him.

Sherlock gave him a _well done, John_ smile then, “I knew your movements would alert Mycroft’s agents. But then Moran called you. You were in the building right then, of course.”

“Of course.”

“That was smart John. Pretending to be up here… No that’s not you. That was Donovan was it?”

“You are asking?” John snorted and Sherlock huffed a laugh.

“As _proof_ he had me up against the window and the hostages on the other side.”

_Of course Sherlock Holmes was never the hostage. No sir it was just the other two._

“Then he…” Sherlock stopped abruptly and looked at John. “He shot you.”

“Hey. It’s ok. I’m ok I promise. It was another magic trick wasn’t it? You faked my death somehow. Tell me?”

“Yes. No. I… Actually it was the man posing as Mrs. Hudson’s nephew. They had got it as one of the contingencies but I had thought it too fantastical to work. He brought the mannequin and slowly pushed it into view. The illumination of the room was too dim. You apparently being in a hurry to switch lights on. I… even I was fooled. Moran fired at the head and got a clean shot. I threw myself on him. The agents and the police both entered followed by you. You know the rest.”

“Yeah. Thanks for saving me again, Sherlock.”

“You idiot, it was you who saved me. That shot was brilliant!” Sherlock was almost back to his smug self when John heard Greg clearing his throat.

“Did you know, John?”

John knew what was being asked, “No Greg. I didn’t. I wish I had but I didn’t. You can hear the rest from him after he has had some tea for his throat. In any other circumstances I would have asked him to rest first but you… all of us deserve the truth asap.”

John heard Sherlock’s brief explanation and was surprised when not a single mention of the snipers and the threat to them was mentioned. Why was Sherlock not gloating about it? He had saved their lives and sacrificed himself. Would he have known if Mycroft hadn't told him? That thought left him thoroughly disturbed and he altogether missed Greg’s farewell (he must have made the necessary sounds and gestures) and the door was latched from inside so he should have done it.

He looked around to see Sherlock sound asleep on the couch. He tucked the afghan around him and palmed the hair away from his forehead. He was still such a child. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giddy with it.  
> I've brought a bit of ACD canon and yet managed to twist it.  
> yay me!
> 
> So what do you think? Dramatic enough? Did it make sense? Did I make it too simple or too complicated? or was it just so not Sherlock and John?
> 
> Yes I made Sherlock rush off as usual into danger but he was also very shaken up by John's death even when he knew it wasn't true. I think thats how much he loves his blogger. Nope still not a triangle ok. Not happening on my watch.
> 
> Moran as a military guy would only think John's Captain rank as relevant.  
> I do wish Sally Donovan's character had been more positive so this is my contribution towards it. (I still think she would have made a great female Lestrade not that I have anything again Mr Graves and the many fanfics he has inspired)  
> I have no idea whether the CID police have precincts within London and I don't care cos I wanted Sherlock to be snarky when emotions happen. Please please ignore that bit if you know better.  
> And of course it was John's shot that took Moran. How could it not be? No matter what, I love that part of BBC John. (yes yes you are right) But then he so easily switches to caring John that... (ok ok not melting not melting)
> 
> I couldn't have Sherlock not being punched so I got Greg to do it. I know I'm giving the poor man short shrift but hey bear with me please.
> 
> I'm keeping the other person in Moriarty's pay away for the time being. If my muse acts up again and doesn't toe my path I will just do away with that OC and edit the previous chapters to erase their mention. If not then we may just have one more villain. Hahahaha 
> 
> So tell me how was it? Did it work for you? Good bad aargh ewwww sigh hmmm? Kudos are sexy and comments (including concrit) are downright lustily haawwwwt.
> 
> PS: Now that I finally have my kickass John back, he has one more surprise up his sleeve. Stay tuned.


	28. Realisations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reality of the whole day hits them and Sherlock and John both realise how much they care for each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry i clicked post before. Please please ignore.

It was later much later after the police crew had left and the crowd of reporters and onlookers had burgeoned and had later been cleared off almost forcibly, after Sherlock had made a call to Mrs. Hudson, after the workmen had replaced the pane and the _scene_ had been cleared off, after Molly had been called as well, after John had cooked them both something and they had quietly watched television in their long ago poses, after John had brushed his teeth and Greg had called again ‘just because’, after Sherlock had said goodnight that it struck John. Sherlock had been so afraid. He had never seen Sherlock afraid (maybe at the pool) and hence it took a longer time to register and digest. Sherlock had been afraid for John, afraid that he had been ineffective, that he had not been clever enough or fast enough. John knew that feeling.

It had been easy to be angry with Sherlock at first but the last few weeks had also healed him.

Sherlock had the same fears of course but John had seldom witnessed it. For instance, in the afternoon after the day of Anthea’s visit back in the country, John had realised that Sherlock could hear him at night just as well as he could hear Sherlock.

> As was his habit, Sherlock had abruptly broken their mutual silence and asked, “What do you dream of John? Your nightmares, what are they about?”
> 
> John had been too stunned to school himself at first. He hadn’t even been able to tell his therapist when it was only the war. “Christ, Sherlock!”
> 
> “Don’t make me deduce it, John. You will get angry and I have promised not to provoke you.”
> 
> “How is this not—”
> 
> “I’m asking because it’s important and not out of idle morbid curiosity.”
> 
> John had been rattled, especially, after what he recalled of the nightmare the night before. But he had rallied after a moment, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
> 
> Sherlock’s face had closed but John had sensed an opportunity and couldn’t let go. Soon, Sherlock would need to start seeing a therapist. Sherlock was going to fight it tooth and nail but John could pave the way for that now and he wasn’t above using what little influence he had. “Please, Sherlock. It’s important to me. It’s not idle curiosity for me either.”
> 
> “You are the only person who can emotionally manipulate me, John.”
> 
> “No, Mrs. Hudson called dibs on that long ago. But thank you.”
> 
> Sherlock had laughed at that.
> 
> “Sherlock?”
> 
> “Fine,” he had huffed theatrically. “And I suppose you will insist that I speak first since I cannot be trusted to keep my promise once I have my data while you a soldier of high integrity will not do so.”
> 
> John had merely smiled.
> 
> There was an extended pause. “My dreams recently can be put under two categories. One is of danger to me and the other danger to people that I… know. In both are strangely fantastical situations enmeshed in some of the dangers that I did face and some of the persons that were involved. I gather that is indeed the nature of traumatic experiences. Also, upon reflection, I realised that I have been responsible for the deaths of quite a few people but have never needed to kill someone directly, so to speak. However, within the very first six months of... of my departure, I was required to do so. That scene does recur at times in various forms. But mostly it is of you... you all. Coming to harm at the hands of persons known or unknown in strange situations where I’m involved or witnessing but I cannot ever be sure how. It is usually you or Mrs. Hudson, at times Lestrade and twice now it has been Molly.”
> 
> _Oh poor poor Sherlock._ John wished once more that he had gone along and spared Sherlock all this. “Thank you.”

*****

Downstairs, Sherlock was lying uneasy plucking at his violin. He understood John’s anger now. A bit. He would still do it all over again if he needed to but now he would be aware that it would make John angry. He could see how his actions had felt to John. He hoped he never had to live those few seconds of seeing Moran’s shot ever again.

John had told him that day of his nightmares. He could feel John’s fears. How did John survive caring for someone like him (or Harry or Mycroft)?

> “I suppose mine are similar. Usually it’s Afghanistan. But also—
> 
> “What of Afghanistan. Be specific, John.”
> 
> “Sometimes of the conditions there, but mostly of the soldiers I couldn’t save or civilian casualties.”
> 
> “Can you see their faces clearly?”
> 
> “Yes, sometimes.”
> 
> “I can too.”
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> “And now?”
> 
> “Of your… fall. Sometimes… I am standing right below and fail to catch you and sometimes _I push you_.”
> 
> That last bit had been a shock. What sort of guilt was John carrying?

Add to that Sherlock knew that it wasn’t just him anymore. The night before, it hadn’t been his name that John had shouted out.

*****

After today John knew that his anger at Sherlock was much diminished. For the ‘fall’ at least. He would always wish Sherlock had trusted his skills enough to take him along but now he knew that Sherlock too felt. That was enough. It was much more than enough.

Finally, unable to contain himself John padded down to Sherlock’s room and knocked. “Yes, John.” The lights were still on. Sherlock was half reclined plucking at the strings of his violin, one leg on the bed one on the floor.

“I ummm. I wanted to say thanks and that I understand. You… Thanks ok. I think after today I’ll stop being so angry at you.”

Sherlock seemed startled and his face grew impossibly soft before he grinned, “No more wanting to strangle me then?”

“I wish,” John giggled. “Just not for, you know.”

“Faking my death.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

*****

He hadn’t meant John to witness his jump. That John had chosen to correctly deduce at exactly the wrong time and turn back had been unfortunate. He had had to quickly text Wiggins to ensure that John wouldn’t touch him before immediately calling John and ensuring he didn’t rush in. That hadn’t been planned. As he had spoken to John it had been made clear he realised that it wasn’t mere ‘survivor’s guilt’ it was the guilt of a soldier who had failed in his duty. And not just physically, right from the beginning, John had protected his ‘feelings’ as well. So he must have felt that he failed as a friend as well.

And now his nightmares. They made quite a lot clear.

It hadn’t been his name John had called out that night after Mycroft’s visit nor at least one other night. He knew his deductions regarding John and Mycroft had been correct but what he hadn’t realised were how deeply John had become engaged. You do not have nightmares about losing someone as cold as Mycroft unless… Once John had related what his nightmares had been about it was quite clear that he needed to be removed completely form the vicinity of Mycroft. It would prove highly inconvenient for Sherlock of course, but sometimes one needed to make some sacrifices for one’s… friends. John had taught him that friends protected each other after all. He would find a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I posted two chapters instead of one this week in lieu of last week.  
> Thanks so much for sticking by me and this fic.
> 
> I hope this part was not too confusing drop a note please I'd love to hear from you


	29. Shhhh we have a plan

John was putting away his fresh laundry while Sherlock was busy in his room. He had resigned his job from the A&E given the horrendous media attention and had been told that he could re-apply whenever he was free to do so without the media circus again. Which brought him to the faint plan that had occurred to him a few days back. He decided to give it a thorough look that evening after dinner.

Of course Sherlock didn’t spare him the need. John had become used to having Sherlock call him for all sorts of help and so when the detective called from the bathroom he rushed down again. Sherlock opened the shower and the tap simultaneously and then in a hushed voice asked, “Do you want to go to Italy?”

John was startled. It had been a mere fifteen seconds or so since he had thought of that advert and considered applying. The dangers of living that close with a genius.

“You want to leave London. Possibly England. Since you now find yourself sufficiently free of guilt to try for another job that will maximise your skills as a soldier and a doctor. You pondered over that page in the Lancet far longer than necessary.”

“And you of course found it vital that you find out what was on that page.”

“Yes. I didn’t mean to deduce.”

“But you meant to butt in?” John said with a laugh, shaking his head.

“You have become skilled at not answering questions.”

“You are a very good teacher, then.”

“Jawwwn? Try not to be tedious please.” Sherlock’s expression made John giggle and John couldn’t help but think that it was as if he had never been _away_. Not one thing about this was unfamiliar or out of their usual manner. Except that yes he was thinking of leaving Sherlock instead of finding means to stay with him.

“Is the flat bugged then?”

“Obvious.” There came the exasperated look.

_Why is my seeking another job a secret?_

“Yes. I am thinking of applying for that job.”

“And are you sure? Have you made up your mind? C’mon, John. You are impulsive. You told me once that you decided to join the army in an hour, more recently you agreed to share a flat with me in minutes, you did not hesitate to follow me and then shoot Hope, you punched the C—”

“Yes, yes I’m thinking of it seriously and yes all your deductions were spot on.”

The smirk said of course they were. But as Sherlockian smirks went, this one was a fairly benign one. The git was plotting. John wasn’t sure what was happening but he knew that look.

“Don’t do anything right now, John. Give me a day perhaps two. Do not under any circumstances check out the website or try to seek more information through any electronic media. Do not be caught trying to leave England or rather planning it. Since I doubt it would go beyond that. Hmmm…”

Sherlock’s voice had trailed away at the last couple of sentences and John simply turned off the water and went back into the living room. In a few moments Sherlock followed, he was rapidly typing away on his mobile. The happy concentration on his face too was rather familiar. He then flung himself on the sofa in his dramatic way and a peace settled over the doctor who proceeded to put the groceries Anthea had sent.

After that Sherlock spent the entire time lying on the sofa unmoving except when John gave him his medication or offered tea.

Late that evening a package was ‘delivered’ on their doorstep. Rather it had been left there without even a knock and John had gone down and picked it up as instructed. It was one of Sherlock’s homeless of course. The packet contained a well-used electronic tablet. Sherlock proceeded to check something on it while John finished washing dishes from the dinner.

“John, help me?”

John found himself once again in the bathroom with the tap on and Sherlock speaking softly. “There are no bugs in this room but let us stay careful. You may use the tab delivered to browse the site and find the details of the job. It has it’s own sim. Try not to stay online too long. Download any notices or forms that you need to. Once you are done provide me with all the data that you need to send and I shall entrust someone to submit it on your behalf. Do not worry about privacy, I assure you these are people who could find all you will say without your help.”

“Sherlock, it’s just a job application—“

“That you want to be accepted on it’s merit and not _stoppered_ immediately.”

John gave a pause and peered into his friend’s eyes wondering if he had understood correctly. Would Mycroft really…? It couldn’t even bear thinking.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I didn’t disappear to make you unhappy John.”

*****

He was resolved now. The day Sherlock stepped out to the site of a crime would be the day that John left London. He had already hurt John once and he knew that being in London would keep hurting him. John had explained to him once how his well-meaning words had hurt Molly. (He had truly thought it kinder to let her know her boyfriend was gay). So he knew that ‘normal’ people saw kindness in a very different way. He knew that John needed to heal. Both from what he had inflicted and for what Mycroft had as well. Once he would have lashed out thinking it was him John was leaving. Perhaps any other time he would have sulked and blackmailed John emotionally into staying. John would have given way. He knows it. John has always needed to be needed. And Sherlock being possessive and needy would have kept him. Perhaps even soothed him. But it's one thing to be soothed and another to be healed. And the Sherlock Holmes now wanted his friend to heal. He wanted John happy. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. 

Yes, John was better off away from the brother Holmeses. He owed this to John. So Sherlock employed all his considerably improved skills at staying under the radar and evading Mycroft to ensure that John's plans stayed put. Sherlock knew that it wasn't Mycroft but Anthea they had to be wary of. Mycroft was undoubtedly the strategist and the power but _she_ was the eyes and ears. And she was fiercely loyal to Mycroft and only Mycroft. And once again Sherlock had chosen the other side. He would be to John what Anthea was to his brother. Anthea would discover it within 24 hours of course and it would take but the click of his fingers for My to have John back. But that idiot brother of his never would and Sherlock was tired of having John being hurt by smart idiots like him and their particular brand of caring and idiocy. Never again.  It was his apology and he hoped John would accept it as one. 

He had always abhorred Mycroft’s intrusion and now planned to pay him in the same coin. But he wasn't meddling. If the fat fool had thrown away the love of a good man then he could grovel and crawl to regain it. Sherlock wouldn't intervene on his behalf. Meddling was best left to diplomats, politicians and older brothers.

Detectives and soldiers took up causes and sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in other words: Sherlock plots and meddles only he doesn't think he is meddling because he is helping John.
> 
> Sherlock does thinks in extremes only. Forgive the man he wouldn't be half as loveable if he followed our logic.  
> The lovely lovely Sebamher thought (hoped?) that Sherlock would learn something from the episode of Moran's capture but I doubt this is what they meant. Lol. Sorry Seb.
> 
> I need Mycroft to realise it all a bit on John's terms cos its almost as if in everything he has the upper hand. (perhaps you have a different perspective but bear with me and just know that I love the daft idiot as much as you do). Again dear Sebamher I owe us all Mycroft's reaction to all of whats happened. Lets see if the muse shall comply.
> 
> Yeah so John is away doing a job that I think will be something like [ this. ](https://unjobs.org/vacancies/1501281752977) I think those doctors and others are awesome and doing a much needed job. More power to them.  
> There are so many things happening suddenly and I'm so glad John is out of his rut of just letting things happen and there's more to come for this version of John I hope.
> 
> Have a nice day darlings and let Bee know how you all are.


	30. A few home truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mrs H explain a few things and Sherlock is left with new data

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today  
> Cos there may be a lull in the next few days

John had called him upon his arrival. They spoke frequently at random times whenever their schedules permitted. John's far more erratic than Sherlock's now. He would be gone for days together and then suddenly return and buzz him. If Sherlock could he would immediately text or call. Yup. Sherlock had actually taken to calling now and then. John hated reading long texts and Sherlock hated typing out case details. It was a compromise and it worked perfectly for them. Sometimes they even Videochatted! John was getting his tan back and though he seemed tired he seemed happier somehow. The job obviously suited him. It was almost tailor made. His concern for children coupled with his daring and training as a soldier coupled with his medical education. Perfect. Sherlock did miss him though. Terribly. And there were times when he truly got upset that he wasn't there. Like this time. It would have never happened if John had been there shielding him.

John had been gone nearly seven weeks when it happened. Lestrade had been rather upset with him quite like John and had scolded him roundly when they had first met after Moran was arrested. But that day he shocked Sherlock with his anger. Sherlock was in Lestrade’s office looking at evidence from a burglary when Lestrade came in.

He seemed to be barely controlling himself from a strong emotion as he firmly closed the door behind him, drew the blinds and then sat down and asked, “Is it true that there were snipers targeting Mrs, Hudson, John and me?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he wanted anyone else to know but he knew that it was useless to deny it. So he simply said nothing.

“So basically, that arsehole threatened to kill us all unless you accepted you were a fraud and threw yourself off and then to ensure there was no way out he shot himself in the mouth. So with the help of Molly and your homeless friends and your brother you faked your suicide.”

_Plodding old Lestrade. He needs to spell out each and every thing before he finally gets it. It’s not a bad method far better than jumping to conclusions._

He merely nodded without looking up.

“Are you gone completely off the rails? I am a bloody copper, there’s always been some two bit criminal out for my blood. Long before you came along. And even after you went and offed yourself for the _greater good_!”

_Yup, it had been a good decision not to tell Lestrade. Another one who refused to understand._

“You think it’s only seeing the dregs of our civilised city that drives coppers mad and drives our divorce rates? It’s the physical danger mate. You respond to a domestic and the perp might take a swing at you with a knife of give you a bullet in the gut and you go there with not even a truncheon because you want to look _safe_ and **sym-pa-the-tic**. You get a young user off the streets and he could scratch and bite you leaving you with HepC. No coming back from that one. You think a fucking sniper threatening to kill me was a good reason to off yourself? You don’t get it do you? I thought I’d let you down, Sherlock. I thought after all this time you didn’t trust me enough to stand by you. You should have stayed put and dug it all up and had him arrested and told all those tossers that I was not wrong in trusting you instead of leaving me alone like you fucking did.”

He breathed deeply, “And here’s the other thing. If Molly hadn’t told me I would have never known would I?”

_Ah Molly!_

“Not one word out of you about the whole thing. Just that you needed to go undercover to deal with Moriarty and his people. Bloody hell Sherlock, you off yourself for someone the least you could do is tell the bloke! You should have told me mate. Please tell me you told John the whole thing. No actually he is better off not knowing. He’d feel even more guilty. You weren’t there when… John was in pieces. He stood by you and you killed yourself in front of him. Jesus!”

“That was a slight miscalculation.”

“Miscalculation? The man nearly followed you to his grave!”

 _No! No John wouldn’t._ But he was ready to use his gun on himself when you first met him Sherlock’s conscience taunted. _No!_

His voice was icy when he finally replied, “I’m sorry my mistakes nearly cost you your job Lestrade. Let me know when you have those photographs of the Whistler burglary.”

He needs to get away. He needs to speak to John. John wouldn’t. Not his John. He is stronger. He would never.

“Sherlock! Hey, hey it’s ok. It’s ok. I’m sorry. I wasn’t… look John was alright ok. We all were looking out for him, I swear. And maybe it was good that we didn’t know cos who wants to be constantly looking over their shoulders right? Breathe now ok. We are all fine. John is happy. We were only worried for a bit but he returned to Baker St. soon and then it was alright, ok. He helped me to clear up my name and get my job back. Among the few that... And he got that steady job at the A&E. I think Mycroft somehow was involved, but I’m not sure how. Not that John isn’t a good doctor of course. Hey he and Mycroft do make a nice couple right?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply.

“What you didn’t know? I mean, they are in and out of each other’s places, and the place practically heats up when they are together, even you couldn’t have missed it,” Greg jokes. “Lets get some caffeine and sugar, ok. John will kill me on his return if you’ve lost weight instead of gained. A bit of a mother hen our John, but he’s a good man. He deserves to be happy.”

_Pretend. Pull on a mask._

“How’s he liking this job then? Keep thinking to call or mail but… Mycroft flying to Italy regularly or does he have a live CCTV feed from the campus?” Greg chuckled again.

“I’d prefer not to speak of my brother’s proclivities please, Lestrade,” Sherlock said drily and Greg chuckled.

“Yeah yeah I get it.”

“But in the interests of gathering data to torture siblings, how long have my brother and John been romantically involved? And in your opinion how far have their emotions been engaged do you think?”

“Oh right, data only is it you git? Not at all brotherly love or happiness for your best friend?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Hmmm I think at least a year now. Those two are so closed up no one can know for sure but you know John, its all or nothing for him. I mean look at you and him. He killed a man for you within twenty-four hours after all. What like I didn’t know that? I confiscated his gun you recall for that case? I ran some ‘independent tests’ just to confirm my suspicions. Don’t worry there is no paper work and no witness. I didn’t involve anyone just shot another bullet and compared it to the one found in Hope’s neck. Mouth’s zipped. As for your brother… Well you would know better wouldn’t you? But when he thinks no one else can see… Ta then, gotta get back to my mountain of paper. Say hi to John when you call him next ok. Dudes still blogging your cases so you must be actually speaking sometime at least.”

*****

He suddenly had new data. It wasn’t easy to acknowledge that he didn’t know what was best for John. He had cured his limp, got him over the boredom, reduced his nightmares, rescued him form boring dates, ensured his safety from Moriarty’s people and then sent him away for his happiness. What had he missed. He thought John was unhappy because of Mycroft. And John was wasn’t he.

What if Lestrade was blind to John’s unhappiness? He didn’t know John well did he? And Lestrade didn’t know his brother at all. Mycroft didn’t do romance. Oh he was no virgin. His brother had been sexually active since his teens with a variety of persons and in all sorts of situations till he entered the government. But not a single one had even come close to being even his friend. Or even a short-term commitment. John needed someone both caring and interesting.

He walked restlessly and wondered if he should call John. Then dismissed the idea. His clomping in his shoes caused enough of a noise that eventually Mrs. Hudson came up with a quiche and tea. _Oh yes, the stalwarts of John’s feed-Sherlock army._

They had their tea and Mrs. H chattered nonsensically about this and that.

She had been told over the phone since it had been already on the news and had insisted on returning immediately. Mycroft had provided her a secure car just in case. But even then she had been rather upset. He had been given a thorough scolding and hugged between the godawful crying. But now she kept getting upset every now and then. He blamed John for it. If only he hadn’t told her. John had caught her sniffling once and gone on to explain that Sherlock had not been abandoning her without a word but rather done it ‘for her’ or some such nonsense. Ever since the minor upsets were getting harsher and more frequent. It had to be related somehow.

“Hudders, why are you angry with me?”

“No idea what you mean, Sherlock.”

“Hudderzzz!”

“…”

“If you don’t tell me I might do it again and then—”

“Don’t you dare, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you dare say that! Oh you horrid horrid boy,” she burst into tears.

Sherlock sat stunned squirming in his seat and waited for it to pass. Mrs Hudson went to wash her face and then returned and made herself fresh cup.

“John told me how you did it to keep us safe Sherlock. I appreciate it love, I really do. But you need to understand. I didn’t want it. How could you think it was the only option? Tell me, which 76 year old wants a 35 year old to die for her? I've lived my life my dear. Lived it fully with no excuses. I do have regrets but only because I grew up and told myself a few truths.” She breathed noisily and continued, “When I didn't have any children of my own I truly despaired. I need people, family. But then we met, and now I have someone who I can fuss over and bake for and scold and who in turn cares enough to die so that I can live. Just remember, I could have had any lodger, Sherlock, but I chose you. Not the other way. 

“There was a time that I thought I'd never even see 30. But look at me now. Planning on a boring and lonely death in a hospice bed. Don't you give me that look Sherlock Holmes. Who will visit me or read to me or even bury me if you are already dead? So let me know how that would be preferable to a quick painless death from a sniper’s bullet,” she said heatedly. 

“Don't bother anymore though, Dr. Watson got me one of those mp3 things and I've bought a bundle of James Hadley Chaise and Craig Rice audio books and have already ordered an elegant service – very short, secular, right there by my bedside before they whisk me away, no attendees needed. Absolutely none. My body will be donated to Bart's they can harvest or butcher anything they want. I got that nice girl Molly to get it all official. Any remains to be cremated and the ashes to be binned unless someone needs them for an experiment.”

It left Sherlock cold in ways he couldn't fathom. Her death was unacceptable. Her acceptance of her lonely life, her cold dismissal of her own remains was unacceptable. She had always been remarkable. Normal and yet interesting just like John. But now she shook him up as she nonchalantly cleaved him away and cauterised the wound. 

First John, then Lestrade and now Hudders. No he hadn't understood that his... friends (?) would prefer their deaths and had needed him to fight back right here instead. He did not regret destroying Moriarty but there seemed to be other things that he may have missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah thats why my muse did not have Sherlock tell either of them earlier. Crooked. Very crooked. Not at all like her.  
> Hmmm wonder what else she is planning. I shudder for poor Mycroft now.
> 
> Yeah so John is away doing a job that I think will be something like [this](https://unjobs.org/vacancies/1501281752977). Which is a job with Save the Children. I think those rescuers, volunteers, doctors and others are awesome and doing a much needed job. More power to them.
> 
> I know Mycroft has been noticeably absent but he is right there don't worry. In that I feel he is a better counterpart to Moriarty than Sherlock. Had I been Moriarty I would have actually wanted to challenge Mycroft. It would have been a spider vs a spider thing.
> 
> Even though John is Sherlock's moral, social etiquette and emotional compass he doesn't do emotions too well either. I read a fic where the author described John as everyone's mate and no one's confidante. I so agree (I forget which fic sorry. if i'd known i'll end up quoting them i'd have saved it. If you too come across it lemme know and i'll link it here) So I think thats why the whole canon thing was such a disaster. Mrs H is infinitely more suited to hammer home a few truths and so is sexy brotherly clueless Lestrade.
> 
> So how are you today?


	31. Loyal ties

Yes, Anthea had known when Watson applied for the position. But not within the first 24 hours as Sherlock had suspected but rather, well, almost as soon as the application had reached the server. There were certain words, phrases and names that the algorithm used as a trigger to let her know and Dr. John H. Watson has been rather high on that list for a very long time now. She could have prevented his selection of course (telling Mycroft would have almost ensured it). But she realised that this was perhaps what was truly needed. Mycroft would call it Machiavellian but desperate times et al.

First, this move would take the good doctor away from the younger Holmes and so prove to Mycroft that Watson was no longer pining for Sherlock. Second, the fact that Sherlock had helped him go away would tell Mycroft that he wasn’t in love with Dr. Watson. Third, it would make it more difficult for Mycroft to pop over to Baker St. for his ‘shot of John Watson’ or to gaze at him over CCTV and yearn. As a bonus, the distance would also hopefully soothe the doctor’s heart and remind him that he needed to fight for what he wanted. 

She was sure that most of it was Mycroft’s fault. Even the most simple mind could see the entire sequence of events, as they must have occurred – Mycroft thought he was being noble by sacrificing his needs; he had pushed Watson away as hard and as cruelly as only he could; the good doctor was not one to make himself a nuisance where he wasn't wanted; he was hurt enough to want to forsake even his best friend just to get away from Mycroft. When she had met Watson after Sherlock's return, it had shocked her. How could both the brothers be so blind.

But then surprisingly it had been Sherlock who had understood at least some of it. His solution hadn't been too much to her liking since it had really hurt Mycroft. But later she had hoped it would help everyone involved. But now it had been more than two months since Dr. Watson had left, which made it more than three months since the younger Holmes had returned and disrupted their relationship (not personally but just by existing) and she was running out of patience.

To the unfamiliar and even close working colleagues and subordinates everything would seem exactly as usual. However, she knew that it was far from. There were tiny near-invisible cracks. He was taking his tea minus sugar and with a splash of milk. Drinking whisky instead of wine and cognac. There was a necktie, expensive but far from his usual luxurious handmade ones, that had been worn rather far more than was necessary given his enormous collection of those. She was equally sure that a certain pair of multi-coloured socks that had been meant as a gag-gift was receiving the same treatment in private. Yet, when Mycroft had gone to _visit Sherlock in the country_ he had deliberately worn neither.

To her, and she was sure even to him, the cracks were very obvious. But the stubborn fool refused to even hear a word she said and so she was rather irritated with him. He had literally shoved his own advice down her throat when the shoe had been on the other foot (and thank heavens for that because finally she was happy.) 

She felt it in her bones – John Watson could do the same for Mycroft if only the two would just accept it. Any man who could handle the younger Holmes was more than capable of handling the older one. And any man who could make Mycroft smile as often as he had done for the past twenty months was definitely worthy. And she had fervently believed that Watson was the sort to fight. But the doctor had left for a new job on the continent! So now she was angry with both of them.

Some day she would retire and tend orchids while her husband wrote romances and read them out to her, and their three hypothetical cats ran rough shod over the entire house. Right now she had a nation and a friend to manage.

She would be on a London and could meet Sherlock in two days. So now the meeting with the Germans first. Hmmm.

*****

“No I will not. Much as you owe my brother your love life I refuse to sacrifice my only friend on the altar of your loyalty.”

Surprising again. Sherlock was the only person, other than an irrational certain someone, who could bring Watson back. He was also among the few who could soften Watson towards that certain someone.

Anthea had known that he would be uncooperative but right now he almost seemed hostile. Sherlock was barely dressed and had been rudely plinking the strings of his violin increasingly annoyingly through her speech. Contrary to popular belief, the brothers actually cared for each other and had demonstrated it verifiably in the years she had known Mycroft. Of course Sherlock already knew about the broken relationship so she had not bothered seguing into it and of course he had known she had come to him for help and so she hadn’t even tried diplomacy or social politeness. A direct approach worked best with all Holmeses. Unlike his stubborn silence earlier he was rather clearly enunciating now.

“And one more thing – If you interfere in John’s life in any manner, other than preventing long term harm, I will know it and I promise you I will make you regret it. I will stop you from interfering even at the cost of hurting myself. Don't think I'm even above _using_ Mycroft to thwart you. You are too much like him. So unless you can make Mycroft become an emotive being capable of giving John what he truly deserves and unless you can make him go begging on his knees to Italy – Leave this the fuck alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there thats Anthea told
> 
> Dont worry, Sherlock isn't completely clueless.
> 
> Ok in case it's too confusing (someone read this prior to publishing and pointed these out)
> 
> Mycroft's visit to Sherlock in the country was that one time after Sherlock had returned and was recovering under John's care.
> 
> The neck tie that I refer too has never been so far mentioned but I'm assuming that John might have bought him one or complimented it. The funny socks similarly have never been mentioned but were definitely a gift from John. 
> 
> So the muse is still around so far and another chapter is ready and in editing phase. 
> 
> Happy times!
> 
> How are you all?


	32. Because

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John now
> 
> Sherlock visits John.

John was tired.

Nowadays his primary state seems to be tired.

A very good satisfactory tiredness seemed to have settled deep in his bones.

A terrible tiredness of the cruelty of humans had settled in his mind.

John was no idealistic greenhorn. He had been in war torn areas, witnessed the so called peacekeeping efforts, seen the Western ideas of bringing democracy, seen the boundaries of patriotism and terror vanish. He had seen child soldiers and suicide bombers. He had seen the worst possible in humans. Even his return to London and his life with Sherlock had been more of the same seeing the dregs of humanity. Perhaps even worse because there was no way of marking us and them.

And yet rescuing children fleeing from war torn areas, desperately hoping for a basic right to live, to be a child, finding them in a state no sane adult of this world (human or animal) would condone, wearied even him beyond his stoicism. Rescuing a child and then witnessing their inevitable death due to malnourishment was not for the faint hearted.

You had to draw from unseen reserves within you. No wonder most of the rescuers did short stints only. It consumed you and filled you.

Each child that survived felt like a personal boon. He knew it was a mere drop in the ocean but that drop was sweet and that's all he could hope for. Of course once the child was deemed fit a whole other problem of 'what next' started. But John Watson was a realist first and foremost.

So, he pushed himself in spite of the tiredness. He pushed himself because of the tiredness. It was a wonderful change from being angry. Which is why he welcomed it doubly.

He had been so angry for so long that at times he had forgotten to be anything else. But now between mostly tiredness he was happy, he felt helpless, he was satisfied, he was successful, he was sad and sometimes angry too.

He wasn't sure what the future held, but at least he knew some day he would be back here. Welcoming this tiredness like a long lost friend. He simply would.

The anger had mostly eased now. The hurt lingered but he was finding it increasingly easier to be happy instead.

He exchanged messages with Harry regularly. Mrs Hudson teased him that he now spoke to her more often than when he had lived upstairs. He had even spoken to Molly a few times. Of course he called Sherlock as much as was possible. He had prepared drafts of blogs again about Sherlock's cases.

Sherlock had taken to video chatting in a big way. It was either texts from him or video. Plainly speaking on phone just wasn't Sherlock's way. Some of his colleagues assumed that Sherlock was his boyfriend (some things never change).

After a very long time he was happy. He was sure that he had come close to being so with Mycroft once. But he had waited for it to become more realised before he connected the two - his happiness and his relationship - and so that had never felt this solid.

Before that he had been happy with Sherlock too. But had later realised that the happiness could be taken away easily.

This happiness was his own. This tiredness was his own.

He was happy.

*****

It was three months into his tenure when Sherlock finally visited John. John had enough downtime accumulated that he could take six days off and had asked him repeatedly to come over. Sherlock had declined saying he would be 'bored' until, John blackmailed him by withholding the description of the wounds he had found on the bodies of the drowned refugees.

The blackmail was the best excuse John had offered him and he was sure John knew that too, so he almost immediately (after only a half day of sulking) capitulated.

In truth, Sherlock had been desperate to meet John after the revelations from Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. And he was concerned for him after he had spoken with his brother's PA (or whatever she was calling herself these days). And then Molly had asked if John was happy. And he couldn't say. He insisted on video calling but this was John. It galled him. 

He needed to know. He hoped John wasn’t still trying to... to... to 'end it'. His work wasn't that dangerous. He hoped John would eventually stop being angry with him. But he wasn't at first sure how to approach it. And so when John first asked him he refused. Also, because he was dreading meeting John Watson in a place where he didn't need Sherlock Holmes.

***** 

It had been a nice day. His taking the earliest flight possible had been a smart thing.

John seemed happy. (There Molly). He hadn't stopped smiling. 

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I want you to be happy."

“Mm?”

“Are you happy?”

“Of course, I am."

"..."

"What’s this all about then?”

“I know you like your job and that it is… fulfilling in a way that being on cases wasn’t. No please, I know and respect that you are a doctor and a soldier, John. But... Just… Is there anything else that you need to be happy?”

“I’m not sure what you are asking, Sherlock. What—

“Just answer. And not triflingly as you are wont to do.”

“Gosh, not asking for much are we?" John snarked right back. "Ok fine stop pouting, yes you are pouting and I am allowed to interrupt you if you interrupt me.” John sighed then and paused for a bit, “I don’t know, Sherlock. I honestly don’t know. I know what you are asking. But… Maybe it’s self pitying but perhaps I... maybe I am one of those who won’t ever have it. And that’s fine because I have so much… Scratch that. I have no clue what I’m saying. I should have stopped at I don’t know.” He shrugged, “Sorry.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled, “Gelato?” 

*****

So John wasn’t going to make it easy for him. John needed to _speak to someone_ and “get it out of his system” as Molly had put it.

There was no one John could do that with. So John must speak to Sherlock. Sherlock was sure that in the almost impossible scenario of him being in John’s shoes, he wouldn’t want that. But John wasn’t him. Of course John wasn’t like Molly or Lestrade either but Lestrade hadn’t even realised that John had been unhappy while Molly had. And she had an opinion and had given it to Sherlock (in a surprisingly rather confident manner). So here he was.

He would try a more direct approach next. Maybe ask John to vent out his anger over his disappearance first. They could have fisticuffs! Brilliant.

*****

“Yes, I'm angry Sherlock. So fucking angry with you. But also tired of being always angry. Now, I just want to forget." 

“Don't. Act on your anger.” 

“And what– hit you?”

_Ugh! John._

“Yes. If it helps, hurt me physically. Abuse me verbally. I promise I'll viciously fight back to make it worth the effort and keep you unsympathetic.” 

John laughed, “You would, wouldn't you? You mad bastard.”

“Let me remind you that you pack quite a punch, captain. It's in my self interest to duck and retaliate.”

John giggled, “Lord I'm thinking of fighting you and laughing. I must be truly gone. “

“I assure you, you are completely sane. Just compromised by your sentiments.”

“Ta so much. Git!”

“So?”

“I'm not going to hit you.”

“Verbal abuse? Shouting?”

“Has it ever helped?”

“Get it out of the system?”

John laughed louder, “God that is so not you. Don't try pop psychology or pop vocab ok. Look let me explain. Yes I'm mad at you but I'm also bloody happy that you aren't dead. I... I actually asked you once... at your grave... for one more miracle. And... Overall I’m happy. Don’t ever doubt that.”

.

.

.

.

“Do you recall my first case after you came back? The cold case Lestrade gave us?”

“You solved it in three hours without leaving the flat.”

“Your face was the exact same as before, John. You said _brilliant_ and smiled exactly the same way as before and then messaged Lestrade and made me tea. You celebrated your happiness then. Isn't it time you vented your anger as well?”

“Are you looking to get punched you daft git? You do recall what happened at Belgravia right?”

“Pfffft you weren't angry then, merely annoyed.”

John just smiled and shook his head in a no. _Stubborn man._

“Fine then I have the rest of the week to anger you again. Just recall to bundle all the previous hurts as well when you let go. So we can have a clean slate.”

“Idiot,” John laughed fondly. He got up and made them both tea. He opened the tin of biscuits that Mrs Holmes had so thoughtfully sent. He was loved. No doubt.

As he sipped at his cup, a thought occurred to him.

“Sherlock? Why did you do it? Why did you help me leave London? Sorry, that didn’t come out right. Do you really think Mycroft would have stopped me from leaving just so he could have a baby sitter for you?”

“The answer to the last is yes, although his reasons for doing so may not have been as simplistic as you put. So now I will answer the first question.”

Sherlock thought for a bit and then decided. Only honesty would do now.

“When I was 'gone' I was worried about a handful of people. Those of you who had been threatened by Moriarty. Among the three – you first and foremost. My parents and Mycroft and Molly. The last few knew that I was alive. Yet it couldn't have been easy knowing I was in worse danger than usual and not having any means to contact me, knowing they should not contact me. Since only Mycroft knew the true extent of it, and was somewhat in touch, it is probable that he worried the most. Added to that was his guilt that he had been unable to prevent it and quite possibly had precipitated the situation. I'm still not sure how, but despite everything, my brother remains a human.”

John was sure that last bit was meant as the worst epithet Sherlock could hurl. 

“I know how hard Mycroft can be on himself, John. He... You saved him. He had shattered his faith in himself and you put it together, put him back together perhaps. Much as you made me human once and continue to do so. I won't beg on his behalf since he truly doesn't deserve you. But then according to me no one in this world is deserving of my John."

John swallowed the lump in his throat.

“And perhaps the situation between you both would have deteriorated no matter what I did. Or irrespective of whether I did or did not manage to return. But I must apologise for my role in it. I'm sorry I broke your heart, John.”

Unable to bear it, John closed his eyes.

“I had thought it a mere infatuation. I hadn't realised that someone _normal_ could even like me, leave alone love me. I'm sorry. It wouldn't have changed my plans, but I would have ensured that you wouldn't blame yourself or witness it or... I'm sorry, John. Truly sorry.”

John isn’t sure what to make of all of it. Of course Sherlock had known but…

“And I'm sorry that upon my return I was such a jealous tit.”

John opened his eyes in shock.

"Stop, just let me say it. You weren't there but -erm- I actually accused Mycroft of,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “of 'stealing' you.”

John was gaping now.

“I as good as told him that he had no business toying with you simply because you had been _vulnerable_. So apologies not just for putting that stupid idea into his head that I "wanted" you instead but also for making you sound like a character in a third rate romantic drama.”

And John giggled. This was new and funny and yeah actually quite nice.

“And lastly I needed to tell you this – I hope you come back John. I miss you."

John wasn't sure Sherlock wasn't  on a mission to make him cry. He was that close, the bastard.

“I miss my best and only friend. I really want you back. But, more importantly, I need you to know that I understand why you felt the need to put nearly a continent between Mycroft and you. I do and that's why I helped you leave and why I **won't** plead his case.”

For a long time John didn't say a word. His throat hurt and then he lunged forward and hugged Sherlock fiercely. 

“Thank you. Thanks so much, Sherlock. Thank you.” He stepped away and then in a rough voice said, “I... if I do ever come back I'll… you will be the first to know, yeah.”

“Of course John you have the room upstairs. Always.”

*****

They spent the rest of the days discussing mutual friends: Molly's pregnancy, Mrs H's hip replacement, Lestrade's new girlfriend, Mike's promotion, even Sherlock's two sessions with his therapist.

Sherlock had spoken to John extensively about almost all his cases but now John dug up his notes and asked for clarifications. He showed him the drafts for his blog as well and Sherlock was delighted. He tried hard not to show it though and John laughed at him and teased him about it till he grudgingly acknowledged it. 

John kept plying him with food and nagging about sleep though – the jet lag should have long passed and John knew Sherlock could sleep whenever he wanted but it's what they did. And Sherlock soaked it all up almost beaming every time John scolded him. John couldn't decide whether to thump him or hug him and since that had always been the case he left it at that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No I do not mean to trivialise the refugee crisis. One must be desperate to take such a horrendous risk. I can't even imagine. Mean time we have refugees in our country and the neighbouring one that strangely no one seems to be sympathising with and I'm shocked and trying to understand how that is even possible. While realising what Europe is going through as well. There are no easy answers.  
> Plus I want to once again highlight the work of those people who are contributing positively to this sad situation (what a blah way of putting it). Like [ "Save the Children"](http://www.savethechildren.org/site/c.8rKLIXMGIpI4E/b.6115947/k.B143/Official_USA_Site.htm).  
> ***
> 
> Look yes I know these two just don't go about flinging long confessions at each other or being all fluffy but I needed this. I needed John to understand and begin to heal. I needed to know that Sherlock got it at least partly. So just go with it please even if it feels way OOC.
> 
> I think Sherlock does emotions only when he experiences them. Like he was concerned for those he left back home and so he acknowledges that Mycroft was concerned too. He wants John to be happy and so now accepts Molly's concern. He is fiercely possessive of John so he can understand why Mycroft wants him too.
> 
> So how are you all?
> 
> Sebamher my lovely lovely one, I'm afraid the muse isn't going with Mycroft's POV at all right now. I have no clue whats happening with him which even to me is aaaargh. So I've put it down in my lists of shorts to be written in this 'verse. Cos I gotta know too. So here's my promise- As soon as my muse tells me I'll write it down, make it into a short and post it here. Even if I'm done and dusted with this one.
> 
> And n_a sorry again but Mycroft just isn't anywhere where he can get whumped. In fact he isn't anywhere at all.
> 
> BUT I do foresee some angst for him if that helps.
> 
> I see very few chapters left of this (finally). And as I told the lovely [ lavengro](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lavengro/pseuds/lavengro) I have three last scenes and an epilogue written. So lovely people who actually are giving this so much love, even once I'm finished here,I think I'm gonna add those as DVD extras. Cos this is AO3 and I can :-D
> 
> On that note let me reiterate: I love you all. Its good to hear from you and I pine away when you don't write :-(
> 
> Love.


	33. When little brothers grow up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft  
> John returns :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'll be adding two short chapters instead of a long one. I'll get the next one out in a day or so. This one too is essentially two shorts clubbed together. Just cannot get to have them flowing from one to another (hah like I got the whole flow any better so far) but really it is frustrating when the muse decided to be pithy suddenly and then my fingers spitted out three shorts!  
> but it's writing and it's still this fic and thats what we truly care for right :-)

Mycroft had been avoiding Sherlock for a change. Sherlock was in a way gratified to have big brother a bit wary of him and so when Mummy issued the summons that promised enforced proximity to his brother he promptly accepted (and possibly left her suspicious). He was shocked by Mycroft’s appearance. In nearly two decades, Mycroft had visibly gained weight again. His brother had tremendous will power. So when he had forsaken his culinary cravings first in favour of sexual prowess and then in the pursuit of power, it had been complete. No matter Sherlock’s taunts. He deliberately (and cruelly dragged his eyes down his body without a flicker or a word and then completely ignored Mycroft. His job on that front was done. He needed data and it wouldn’t do to rile My too much and get his hackles up.

The inevitable happened of course and they both escaped to the back yard for a smoke. Britain needed an ordinance against overbearing parents.

They smoked that shared cigarette in blissful silence and then Mycroft meticulously crushed it and disposed off the end. Of course they lingered, neither willing to go in too soon. With a mutual nod they set off for a walk, Mycroft quickly peeking in for a moment to let father know. Mycroft was now considerably relaxed. Time to act. 

The conversation started rather predictably but one must make sacrifices for friends. John was returning and something must be done.

“You came personally to rescue me. Why?”

"..."

"..."

“Why do you think?”

“Mycroft. This could be important.” _Patronisingly perfect tone giving smug satisfaction._

“Important? For who pray could this be important? The thing is done and done successfully. The details are now superfluous.”

“I have always made things more difficult for you.” _Time for emotional tactics._

“Yes, you have. But then so have I.”

_Startling! Big brother being candid._

“I did covet that dog and tried every trick in the book to have him instead, including enticing him with unsuitable food that he was greedy for.”

 _Yeah he had. Thats actually laugh worthy._  “Fortunately I had a far too keen nose even then. Tell me why Mycroft.”

“Why this sudden need for sentiment brother dear?”

“So it was sentiment?”

 _Aha! That imperceptible stiffening and then immediate deliberate relaxing._  

“Of course it was Sherlock. I have said so for years. You are not merely a responsibility.”

Sherlock nodded to himself. _Time for decisive question._

“Do you love him?”

_Gone stone like and silent with his annoying smile on his face._

“I told you once that I would not allow you to hurt him, Mycroft. You still may not.”

_Stays smiling._ _He makes things so unnecessarily complicated._

“Fight for him brother. It’s the minimum he deserves. I concede my deductions were off then.”

“Do my ears deceive or is it true love then, brother? It is indeed the first time in too many years that you have conceded to being wrong. The good doctor’s welfare means much to you. Can we hope to hear further good news with an invitation soon?”

_Smug idiot._

“Yes, John’s welfare means much to me. But you see – I am not the one afraid to even speak his name.”

“This conversation gets tedious.”

_Does it brother dear?_

“It does. So I hope you will do whatever it takes to remedy the situation between John and you.”

“I need to get back to London, Sherlock. Do you want to continue walking? I’ll say goodbye then.”

 _Bloody escapist. Scramble_.

“You have always pushed me when you thought it was for my good, brother dear.”

“And you have always asked me to fuck off and go to hell.” 

_Bingo!_

With that small victory under his belt Sherlock Holmes walked back in laughing. It might have been the first time in many years that Sherlock had accepted being wrong but it had been the first time in forever since his brother had cursed. Oh yes, John Watson would make the most acceptable brother-in-law in a few months or years.

*****

“Yes, Sherlock. Now stop fussing.”

Sherlock pouted. John giggled.

“We should go out for dinner. Maybe invite Mrs. Hudson? Yes? Let me run down then, I can finish unpacking later. Angelo’s? You call, I’ll ask her.”

It was good to be back in London. So good. If anyone asked him his plans right now he would say – not to leave London. Italy had been well and good and he was glad he had gone, and he would definitely return there as many times as he could, but he was much more glad that he was back. If Sherlock kept getting them a steady income from cases, maybe he could start volunteering instead. He wouldn’t even mind that the cheques only were made in Sherlock’s name. His ego was fine thanks for asking.

And Mrs. H seemed to have aged considerably. Or perhaps he had finally let his head out of his arse and started seeing others around him. She needed them physically now. Her age seemed to have crept upon all of them unnoticed. He resolved to have TV dinners with her regularly and also to stop by every day no matter how tough the case.

“… and so that’s how I ended up married to my husband and living in Florida of all the places! Sherlock dear do you want a taste of this tartufo? It’s divine. Isn’t the cherry filling something? Maybe I should get a mould...”

It was good to be back in London.

So good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, he's back.   
> Isn't Sherlock divine in that scene with Mycroft?
> 
> Oh I can't wait to see what happens next. Oooh the suspense of it all.  
> I tried getting all my favourite people in one scene or even one chapter but Molly, Lestrade and Anthea refused to oblige. And Mycroft refused to share a scene with others. Spoilsport.
> 
> So long lovely people.


	34. Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the whole kidnapping rigmarole again

Honestly? This whole kidnapping rigmarole again?

The driver wasn’t Court but it was definitely a _Mycroft_ car. He even recognised the number plate.

He slid into the idling car. Anthea was absent. Hmmm. Maybe not exactly  kidnapping then he thought wickedly grinning to himself.

John hummed to himself as they drove. Another warehouse? Oh for some variety.

He got out and followed the way to the dim light on the other end.

What was it about these secretive geniuses and abandoned warehouses anyways? He never wanted to see the inside of one again. Ever.

And why had Mycroft waited a week this time? The first time had been within 24 hours of meeting Sherlock.

Mycroft was waiting, standing. Lord spare him from Holmesian theatrics. He really wasn’t in the mood for this rot so he didn’t wait for Mycroft to speak.

“Why did we need this?”

The silence stretched. So Thats how it was going to be. Fine then. 

They both waited and waited and waited. John could out-stubborn Sherlock and today he wasn't even limping, so surely his brother was no match.

After a while, Mycroft sighed and was replied by more silence.

Finally, he lifted his umbrella and examined its tip carefully as he spoke, “We should have dinner together tonight.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Will you have dinner with me?”

John gave an amused smirk.

Mycroft hooked his umbrella on his arm and crossed his arms. “John, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to a dinner for two this evening, please?”

John answered earnestly, “Sorry, Mycroft. I am busy this evening. Perhaps another day?” 

Mycroft gave him a stony look.

"Was that all? Goodbye then. Nice seeing you again." He then turned to leave.

“This is childish and petulant.”

John simply laughed and kept walking.

John blinked in the sun outside. Oh yeah! That felt good.

It wasn’t about revenge. Ok may be a tad bit not fully. He wasn't childish or vengeful. He had gotten into the car out of sheer curiosity. He had wanted to meet Mycroft and this was after all the surest way. The mere sight of his ex-lover (yes, he could easily say that now) had made him hurt, and while he would always remember their time together with a pang, he _had_ promised himself that he would let go when the time came.

He had been very angry at the way they had parted, both at Mycroft and himself for being such a pushover... but that was then and they had been very good together and he had been happy and given time he saw no reason to mar any of it with ugly words. yes, it had been mostly good and it had come at a time when he had desperately needed it.

John had known that it would hurt to see Mycroft again. It would hurt not to be together as they once were. But he had hoped it would dull over time and it had, a bit. The first meeting was the test after all. He hadn’t made any efforts to date ever since and he knew that if he ever saw Mycroft with someone else he would die a little.

But that was ok.

He would live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sao yes this is the last part of what I wrote of John's return.
> 
> Yes, I know I know.  
> Mycroft, ugh. Now you know why Anthea wasn't in the car. bet he didn't tell her at all. I mean if he had to do this couldn't he have kidnapped John to a hotel room? or maybe had dinner waiting right there, all romantic and all with candles, scotch and John's favourite foods? (he knows them). I think John would have loved that.  
> John wasn't being a bastard or trying to get even. Just wait ok. Please.  
> So how's everything my pretty ones?


	35. Old lovers and old friends

John had told Mycroft the truth.

Sarah had called to ask him out for dinner. It was a double celebration. For him, he had been contracted for an anthology of Sherlock’s cases and the first few chapters had garnered a very good initial reaction from the publisher accompanied by a cheque with a rather tidy sum (Note: nights after rescue missions that ended up with him so tired and disheartened that he couldn’t even sleep were excellent for writing). For Sarah, the baby was old enough to be left alone with another adult and she desperately needed to spend time with someone who wouldn’t even utter a word of babies, nappies, or feeding. _Desperately needed_. Given her last promotion before she left for her maternity leave and his cheque they decided to _pig it out in style_ – formal dress, cab pick up, posh restaurant (reservations courtesy his 'agent'. Yes John Watson had a literary agent). 

The food, wine, company, conversation were all excellent. They discussed medicine, his stint abroad, the headaches of her administrative responsibilities, erstwhile colleagues, books or plays or movies they had seen or missed, politics, they pulled legs, complimented lavishly and sincerely, in short it was a comfortable evening with a friend.

“This was fun, John. I—“

“Desperately needed it.”

“Yes, yes, ok so I said it too many times.” She stuck out her tongue and they laughed together.

“No you didn’t. Shall I call a cab then?”

“Yes, but _two_ cabs. You need not see me back home. Actually, let me find one to take me and please call for the bill while I go to the wash. Actually no I'm dropping my share right off so we don't get into the whole - _i'll pay oh no i'll pay etc etc._ ” She dropped the bills and then unhesitatingly (and seemingly without making mistakes) tapped away at her smart phone screen and John looked on amusedly as he still was pants at the whole thing.

He stood up when she did and as he rose he spotted Mycroft looking at him. With a genuine smile he raised a hand in greeting and Sarah turned to see as well. Mycroft politely walked over.

“Good evening, Dr. Watson.”

“Hello, Mycroft. This is my friend and erstwhile colleague, Dr. Sarah Sawyer. Sarah this is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Good evening, Dr. Sawyer. A pleasure.”

“Hi. Are you Sherlock’s brother then? The one in the government?”

“The one and the same.”

“The pleasure is mine then. It is nice to put a face to John’s narratives.”

“You are too kind.”

The phone pinged and Sarah grimaced, “Excuse me, please. John, the cab will be here soon.”

“Oh yes yes, off with you. I’ll wait at the door.”

“Oh there’s no need. I’ll say my good bye now. Good bye, Mr. Holmes. John, don’t forget to send me that link ok.”

“Sure, and text me when you reach home.”

"I will and yes I have shared my ride details with my husband and you both. Happy?" She gave him a hug and a kiss and rushed to the washroom.

John turned to Mycroft, “Are you alone?” _Fuck Watson! What are you doing?_

“Yes, I too was on my way out. Perhaps I could drop you—” _Was that a query of interest, John?_

“Join me.” _No Watson no dammit no._

“Pardon me?” _Why? I thought you_ _didn't want to spend any time with me._

“Unless you are in a hurry? No? Come on lets sit and chat for a bit, have a drink.” _What are you trying to prove and to who, Watson?_

“If you are sure.” _What do you truly want, John?_

John was back in his seat and Mycroft caught the eye of the waiter as Mycroft sat across. He honestly wasn’t sure what they would speak about. Why had John extended the invitation? The last time they spoke (this afternoon) John had rebuffed him.

“How’s Court?”

Mycroft was surprised both by the question and by the genuine interest in John’s eyes.

“Quite well thanks. He became a father a second time. In fact he will be driving me back so if you want you can enquire your self.”

“Maybe I will. And Anthea? Still being the best ninja PA + right hand + all those things in the world which no one will ever know?”

Mycroft laughed out, “She will be thrilled you said that.” _He would never mention John in front of A voluntarily._

The waiter appeared with the wine list and John asked for a scotch and ice while Mycroft asked for a cognac.

“How was Italy?”

“Lovely. Both the land and the people I worked with.”

“And your work?”

“Good. I’m glad I went. I may go back for another stint.”

Mycroft was still at a loss of what to say. The finest diplomat in the UK was at a loss for words. John was being his usual self. No hidden agenda. No sneaky motives. It had been too long a stretch without that. Without him. And why in the world was he upset that John wasn’t as uncomfortable as him? He had forgotten how easy and comfortable they could be together. This truly was like one of those times. They had never had a date outside like this and he wished they had. One more regret.

Their drinks were served.

From then on the conversation flowed. They chatted for quite a while on all sorts of topics. John was an excellent conversationalist when he was not being merely polite but genuinely wanting to spend time with someone. They discussed things so easily. John listened attentively and took stands even when they were not the popular view. He even made Mycroft laugh by imitating Sherlock as he made wildly ridiculous deductions about patrons and waiting staff. At one time Mycroft suddenly stopped him and corrected him because John's deduction wasn't even half as weird as the truth: The guest wasn't scared that he would accidentally tell his boyfriend that he had gained weight, but rather he had a fetish for plump men and he couldn't tell his forever fretting about weight boyfriend that he actually liked those extra pounds and had been dating him because he gained weight so easily.

John looked across at Mycroft then and smiled. _It was so nice to find such acceptance wasn't it?_ And Mycroft knew what John was thinking while he wildly speculated on whether his own weight gain was off putting or... Damn the man for getting even more tanned and buff and with all his hair still intact.

*****

And suddenly they needed to leave. John insisted on paying for Mycroft's drinks as well. 

They collected their coats and THE UMBRELLA from the cloak room both taking as much time as was possible. Drawing it out. Making small talk about how the area was busy even at that hour when Mycroft finally gave in. And thank god he did because... It had hardly taken a nudge and they were in bed, together. Mycroft had told John that they could have his usual suite upstairs at a moment’s notice and John had simply said yes.

There had been no games, no playing coy or pretending that it wasn’t an invitation. Both were glad that those things at least stayed the same.

The sex too was the same. Just as hot, just as satisfying.

John had lost all the softness gained during Sherlock's absence. All of it. And now he was even more fit if that had even been possible. He was all corded muscle and his skin practically glowed. Apparently the whole having a dedicated job, actual downtime, time to eat regular meals et al maketh a man healthier etc wasn't a myth. The corded muscles also spoke of regular gym time. That extra strength was rather arousing. Too arousing. And the hardness all over coated with that silky golden skin made the man irresistible. What had come as a pleasant surprise through it all however was John's eagerness. John had always been a very good partner during their sexual encounters but this near feverish touching, putting all his newly found strength and agility into grasping every part of Mycroft's flesh. He wouldn't be surprised if the moniker of 'Three Continents' hadn't been re-earned and expanded. Mycroft had never felt so intensely aroused and jealous simultaneously. If only he could... 

All John had been able to do once in the room was go with it all.  _Ohmigawwwd!_

_How could a man become even more attractive? He wanted to sink into that extra pudge. That slight softness in the belly was…. Nnnnngh. Oh oh yes, Mycroft! Right there oh. Fuck!_

_He had always had a thing for those long legs but those slightly plump thighs were diviiiiiinnnnne. Mmmmmmm yes!_

_Oh that neck. That long easily bruised neck that always looks a bit delicate and now it comes with a hint of a double chin. Uunnnnnffff. He bloody knows mnnngh what that does to me._

_Flip over. Shit that arse isssss....._  Aaaaahnnnnn. 

How in the world had he stayed celibate for all these months was a wonder. He wasn’t an addict but heck he hated going without.

*****

Yes, they had always been good at this. But it was equally true that John was glad for an excuse to leave immediately. He got up and started putting on his clothes.

“Stay.”

“Sorry?”

“Stay the night.”

“Can't, Mycroft. Really, sorry. I really could do with a lie-in but... I really need to leave. Gotta be up early to leave for Exeter. Heck, I should have already had three hours sleep by now. The travel back has already been merciless, guess, age is creeping up on me.”

“You are still angry.”

“No no, this isn't about any of that. Please. I am sure you know that Harry moved away and I've got tickets for the train in the morning. Don't ruin this, please.”

“I'm sorry I couldn't tell you about Sher—”

“I already told you,” John nearly lost it. “Don't say sorry. You don't _get_ to say sorry. You don't get to push and pull me as you please. You don't get to say sorry and… forget it. I don't give a damn honestly. It was a good evening. I actually liked just talking to you, having a drink and yes I liked this too. We were always good in bed and so we fucked once again. Can we—”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing.” John didn’t even turn back.

“This is childish and petulant.”

“So you’ve said already.”

“Do you want me to beg?”

“Only in bed.”

_Huh!_

“Fuck, sorry. That was stupid. Sorry. Look. I had a good time right now and all through the evening. I truly hope you did too. That's what it was. It wasn't revenge sex or anything. It truly was nothing else but getting together and yes also sex. Should circumstances recur I would do it again perhaps. But that's it. Or maybe if you feel like I’m using you then we shouldn’t. Either ways, I hope when we meet again we meet like we did this evening. As friends. I truly do. Good night, Mycroft.”

He left. Of course he left. Mycroft switched off the lights.

*****

Sherlock was running some experiment when he got back to the flat. One glimpse at him and John wanted to flee.

“John I'm—”

John wasn’t sure what Sherlock wanted to say or why and simply turned mid-sentence and left for a _walk_ , when he returned he apologised to Sherlock and then went to the station on to Exeter with no sleep. 

His day and a half in Exeter were fine in that he hardly got any time to think. Harry had finally shored up her courage and apologised to Clara in person and Clara had forgiven her but it had been rough on her. She was an emotional wreck and he was glad he had given her someone to be with.

*****

On his return he finished editing and posting a blog and wrote down some case notes Sherlock had mercifully provided. Then he took tea with Mrs H. She was her usual warm self, giving him the neighbourhood gossip and narrating all the exasperating incidents Sherlock had been involved in during John's absence (some of which she had already told him about). 

After dinner he was putting away the left overs when Sherlock came to stand by the kitchen door.

“We have an invitation to spend the weekend with my parents. Mycroft will be there too. If you don’t want to go, I can make some excuse.” John nodded at him as if to say, thinking about it, gimme a moment. Sherlock continued, “Mummy had asked for your number to ask you personally but I refused. She is great at emotional manipulation.”

John paused then and looked at Sherlock, “Sherlock, why are _you_ manipulating me to come?”

“I don’t want to go alone, John. The previous time was tedious enough.” 

John narrowed his eyes further. “Is this in line with your whole, make John happy project?”

Sherlock looked down and then met his eyes squarely, “It’s not… not just for you. … He is my brother. And he came for me. I didn’t tell you before because I was half dead when he found me so I wasn’t sure what parts were delirium versus facts. But he personally came to find me, retrieved me, and as a result burnt one of his field identities. Spies cannot afford that and he seldom does field work now but even so it was a huge sacrifice.”

“He’s always cared for you, Sherlock. But—”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I promised that I wouldn't plead his case.”

.

.

“Sherlock? I... I need you to tell me the truth ok. Please.”

“Hm.”

“Do you think Mycroft put your mother up to this?”

“No. It is all her idea.” He gave a frustrated sigh then, “In fact, I suspect that if anything she is trying to match make between you and me. Don't look so amused.” They both laughed together.

“She thinks I'm pining away for you.” Giggles now. 

“Why isn't it the other way? I could be pining away for you,” John asks.

“Well then it's mutual isn't it and she can give us a _happy ending_. Meddling runs in the family, John.”

The laughter died.

“Sorry.”

John rubbed his palm over his face. “I'm tired of being manipulated Sherlock. Why do you all believe that you know better than I do? If I'm making mistakes and not taking opportunities then leave me be please. It's my life to mess with. And if it hurts you to see me throwing it all away then forsake me for good. I'd really prefer people abandoning me than meddling. I've always hated that.”

“Which is why you clung closer when Donovan warned you about me the very first day or why you sided with me against Mycroft.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, John. I wasn’t trying to meddle. I just truly want you to be happy.”

“And also want your brother to be happy.”

“Mm.”

“If you were me, would you... get ... get involved with Mycroft again?”

“…”

“I forgave you because you did it truly out of love. You knew the risks going in and yeah you did sacrifice your life and work here. You didn't even defend your reputation as a detective, which is truly your joy and pride. And you knew you might not return. You went about it all wrong Sherlock but you did it because you love us. Love me. So I forgive you. But, it’s different with… its different there.”

John had never seen that look on Sherlock's face. 

But being the typical male he decided to leave it at that.

"Tea?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John may have forgiven Sherlock and even Molly and is now trying with Harry but he is still touchy about Mycroft. In some part he is actually angry with himself. Yes he is in complete denial that it isn't sex but sex with Mycroft that he craves.
> 
> Yes John finds Mycroft's extra weight dishy. Yes Mycroft finds John's extra buff equally so. That isn't even a surprise right? They'll get there ok. Might not be sugary sweet right now, but it will have a HEA.
> 
> Sherlock is being himself he still isn't sure how the whole relationships thing works. But he is now on the whole make John happy roll and is discovering that Mycroft might be key to that (poor SH). He also feels like he owes MH for the rescue (of course he doesn't love his brother whatever are you talking about)
> 
> So it's Diwali week here and if you have no clue what that is then just think of it as the equivalent of Christmas time. Or Ei-al-Fitr minus the month of fasting. Diwali is big for Hindus, Sikhs and Jains. No idea what equivalence I could give to Jews or Buddhists (not in india) or Bahai's or other religions but I hope most of you get it. It's a big, noisy, family and calorie ridden time.
> 
> So here are my greetings for all of you lovely people: "May the Goddess bless you all with health, joy, prosperity and light. And may she strengthen you to give someone the same."


	36. Sorry Doctor Watson I didn't want to Kill you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you begin reading could you all go and see and kudos and fawn over [this wonderful fanart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12388956) by [Georgefittleworth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Georgefittleworth/pseuds/Georgefittleworth) please.
> 
> YES! It is _that scene_ from The Soldier and the Spy. You know the one in Chapter 15.  
>  Someone drew fanart for my fic Hooray!
> 
> And then that same lovely person drew [one more scene from Chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12395280). How cool is that!
> 
> Go on and drool over them and hit kudos and comment so that they sketch other stuff for me please. Wont it be awesome if we could have more Johncroft fanart by them. Me thinks you guys should ask.
> 
> Which is why I'm posting this chapter in a hurry and so it may have a lil bit more mistakes than usual. Please bear with me.:D

Strange isn’t it.

John had himself to blame for this. This vaguely familiar woman was going to kill him because he had left a stray comment that he was sure there has been someone else at the pool. And Anthea has followed it. And now both Anthea and he were paying the price. It was dark but he could see Anthea’s body lying beyond. He fervently hoped she was alive. 

She seemed to like the sound of her own voice though. Her voice had an unfamiliar accent. The original had been layered with experience, travel and deliberate effort. She seemed rather happy to explain it all in great detail.

Mycroft and Sherlock were both secured with zip ties. Sherlock had received a blow to his head as well. 

“Sorry you are tied. But I need to fulfil my contract and you both would have interfered.”

She was alone and there were four of them three geniuses and one courageous to the point of foolhardy. 

“Sorry Dr Watson but I need proof or I don’t get paid or let off the contract. Just need your fingerprints on this scanner, they’ll have a copy to check against and a bit of your DNA please. Sorry but hair can be taken from other sources and yes inside of the cheek is painless but I can’t afford you screaming. There all done and I’ve recorded it too.” She put away the sliver of skin in what seemed to be surgical grade container.

“No Mr Holmes I have been contracted only for one strike. You will still have saved the other two. Your bodyguard was truly collateral damage. I have always had the utmost respect for her. One always respects one's competitors and equals.”

Anthea lay motionless and John seethed at the comparison. 

“Could you lift your hand please Doctor? I really want this as painless as possible.” She taped it off. She was going to kill him but didn’t want him to bleed from a minor cut. How wonderful! 

“No Mr Sherlock I wasn’t just Mr Moriarty’s mercenary I was his bodyguard and well a few other things. We almost met at the pool when Dr Watson tried to sacrifice himself. I had been instructed not to let either of you injure or kill Mr Moriarty or yourselves, that’s all. I didn’t want to kill you Dr Watson. I want out for good. But this is the price I must pay for it. You'll understand since you are like me in this aspect. We do what we must do. No compunction. I like that. You take orders, you follow, you protect, you take care of everything else so **he** can focus. Mr Moriarty admired your loyalty and he compared us once. Just like you I was the best he could find. But he modified the contract at the last. And without him there is no way to nullify it. I have to honour it.  Thanks to you Col. Moran was killed. Unlike him I wouldn’t have carried out the contract. I don’t need the contract money. If I hadn’t, he was to fulfil it and kill me. You truly did me a favour. He was the only reason I had to fulfil the contract after Mr. Moriarty died. And now you are the one who added that they must look for me.”

 _Well if you are truly going to just disappear why kill us ok kill me at all. You could have disappeared by now._ John thought grumpily, only to be replied by that blathering assassin. “I could have disappeared before. You were the only person who suspected my presence. Mr Sherlock here didn’t even know. But you made some notes about the confrontation at the pool and after which they refused to ignore. So they tried to trace me and I’m no longer able to disappear without the need to pull one favour to disappear thoroughly which needs me to re-establish my loyalties. Tedious isn’t it? Ms Bodyguard here was quite clever and stealthy in tracing me. But such things always leave at least a faint whiff. I know she isnt just that but I don’t know her name so... No one does. Isn’t that clever. Just like me.” The woman beamed and John’s blood boiled as the insane woman compared herself to the loyal and brave Anthea.

She was busy with John. It would just be a distraction but he hoped it would give them enough time. Here’s hoping. Mycroft hurled himself with the bloody chair.

A single shot rang out. “Anahit Gohar Renatsi Ardzruni or AGRA for short.”

“Sorry?” John asked stunned that the shot had come from Anthea.

“Her full name Watson. Quite easy to find out. After all. She was nothing like me.” The definitely not dead heck not even unconscious Anthea. And Mycroft had just… alongwith the chair... and Oh god thank god.

John had to laugh at that and the gutsy woman untying him simply smirked.

And then there was an explosion.

*****

It had been almost two days. He needed to be there with Mycroft and he wasn’t and it was killing him. He knew Mycroft was not in a bad state and could make calls because Sherlock had exchanged texts him at least once in John’s presence. But he couldn’t expect a call could he, even if he was itching to hear from Mycroft. Sherlock and he had come out of their encounter with A.G.R.A. almost unscathed but Anthea had nearly died. And Mycroft had been severely injured. In another life he would have texted Mycroft. He still could. But after that night together it seemed rather awkward. He wasn’t even sure if Mycroft would want to hear from him.

It didn’t help that he had been right. He should have just left it alone. Gut feeling indeed. Speak of arrogance. Sherlock Holmes had a John Watson so Jim Moriarty should have one too.

 

*****

Mycroft's thoughts were a never ending cycle. Anthea-John-AGRA-Anthea-AGRA-John-

A lay unconscious on the bed. It had been exactly three days. It was a medicine induced unconsciousness. The doctors were very hopeful. Her body had begun to heal. They had dosed her with opiates once more last evening just so that she would rest some more.

She had lain in that very room and bed only once _before_. At the ‘beginning’. That attack had been clearly meant for him but they had switched at the last minute or rather she had switched. Damn her greater acuity. She called it a woman’s intuition just to mock him. A had anticipated such an attack and had tricked Mycroft into attending to a _safer_ task. No less critical but nevertheless… They had switched and the assassins had got A instead. She had taken down two of them and her guards had taken down the other three. Both of her guards had been injured as well, one of them had had to retire to a desk job. Not many could fool him so easily. A had of course never needed to. They had always acted as one. Most believed that the phone in her hand was just that and that she was busy playing games. No one suspected his pretty right hand of being anything other than a PA whom he used as eye-candy to distract his opponents and perhaps even his personal sex provider. If his opponents and his supporters chose to believe so then it was their own dis-coloured view of the world and indeed their weakness. Neither of them had ever even wanted such a thing.

And now that damned woman had injured A. Double concussion. It was unconscionable. He was twelve years her senior. Old by his own standards. He felt old. And not many knew it but she was his successor. Meritocracy. It would be the smoothest succession in the history of politics. Her physical attractions would work both for and against her. A handsome man had an asset in diplomatic circles, a beautiful woman had a handicap. Always. She was astute enough to recognise it and wily enough to use it. He had ensured that there would be no glass ceiling for her. A would be his complete successor and potentially (most definitely) she would grow her power. She had of course spotted three potential successors of her own. (One of them was younger than she had been when she had first joined him.) She was very risk averse. Must be a female thing. He had only ever had the one. She was indispensable and there was no way he was letting go. Which is why he was spending all his free time monitoring her.

Sherlock was the only other one who had done this to him. Long back when he had first overdosed (it hadn’t become easier but he had realised what he needed to keep his brother safe and had worked towards it). That bleak helpless feeling. He hadn’t been so ‘equipped’ back then and had had to pull too many favours. Sheer bravado wouldn’t carry them through now. He couldn’t recall being this distracted in a very long time. Not even when he had first realised that John had left for Italy. Left London and Sherlock to go to Italy to do a somewhat dangerous job.

Her husband K had been informed. It was the only condition K had ever imposed. That he be informed immediately of any such eventuality. That it not be kept from him “for his own sake or for the greater good or any such bullshit”. He was taking an indefinite leave of absence to be with A. Good man. He truly believed she would pull through. Truly.

Mycroft almost wished he too believed in miracles or religion or the power of love so strongly.

The meeting with Lady Smallwood had been immensely satisfying. AGRA would spend quite some time in government facilities. Pity. He wanted her dead a week back itself but priorities had to be maintained. That woman had far more information than even Adler. She had practically begged and explained to them why she was going to kill John. Must have been bloody terrified to try and explain it all even as she proceeded to kill Anthea and then John. Funny how things turned out. She said that she would have gone away quietly. She had been planning it. If only that damned comment…

Was he feeling anger at John now? Ridiculous. He must be more tired than he thought. John had just been digging as they all had been and his instincts had been spot on. _There was one more person present at the pool. Moran wasn’t Moriarty’s right hand someone else was_. Of course it was tiredness and his own injuries which weren’t doing him any favours. He had been unable to take the prescribed rest. (He never did but this time A wasn’t there to relieve him of his more tedious duties.)

John… Bet that stupid soldier was wallowing in guilt. John had spotted something and then gotten distracted by Sherlock’s return. If they had left it alone the assassin told them that she would have simply disappeared after Moran’s death.

_Col. Moran was the only reason…_

A had of course left no string untied. They had hoped on the one hand that it was a false alarm and on the other that they could get the one person who could help them uncover the secrets that Moriarty’s suicide had prevented them from uncovering.

He was tired and some of his injuries were scabbing and so his back was both hurting and itching. He had been lucky of course. But still fire on one’s skin even when protected by impact proof vests did damage. And his shin was blue black. When had he become this delicate?

*****

He knew it was a bad idea but there was no other way. “Sherlock. Do you have any news from Anthea, please?”

“Anthea is now in a medically induced unconsciousness. Her prognosis is excellent. The one time she gained consciousness she was in complete control of her mental and physical faculties. However, given her history she is being forced to rest.” John nodded his head. Yes that made sense. These people were unlikely to rest unless tied to it (literally or figuratively). But Sherlock wasn’t done. “Mycroft’s injuries were only superficial. Most of it was the intense heat but save for epidermal scars he will not have lasting damage. He has been conducting his normal duties and no one other than his immediate team know of the reason for Anthea’s absence and hence know of his injuries. Which let me assure you is du jour.”

John felt caught out. He hadn’t asked but of course Sherlock knew. “Thank you.”

“Are you going to call him or meet him?”

“Wha- no no. There’s no need. Thanks though. It’s good to know. Thanks.”

“You haven’t been sleeping well John. And you keep hoping that he will call. He won’t. And you are reluctant to call him. Even to ask after Anthea. You don’t want to seem needy or clingy. You won’t. Isn’t there a precedent for this during the months you both were having regular coitus? I am sur—”

“Ok enough. Thanks and what are we doing for dinner?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t the not good category. Hmmm avoidance.”

 _Fuck!_ John braced himself.

“You had sex with Mycroft before you left for Exeter. It's not in you to simply fuck, John. Even your so called one-night stands get an emotional connect. Try not to lie to yourself. I'm not pleading his case I'm pleading yours. Don't do this to yourself. You are not cold and distant. You cannot use and throw people. It hurts you instead. Engage in regular encounters with him if it pleases you but do it after reinstating whatever parameters you had prior to my return. Or stay the hell away from him. Bury it all, like you have done so far, but don't try that again please.”

John opened his mouth but Sherlock raised an imperious hand and continued his rapid-fire pronouncements, “We both know this was no revenge sex or a one-night stand because we both know that you haven't had sex with anyone else for the last six or seven months. I don't care what you do with that anger but just please forgive yourself.”

That last bit that hit him. Was he really truly mad at himself?

He thought he had… well obviously not. He opened the fridge to figure out dinner.

*****

Mycroft lasted a full five days. He had hoped that John would call. But perhaps he truly was happier away from Mycroft. There had been a time when… John had cared at least some. Hadn’t he? Or had it been truly one-sided as he had feared. Now that Sherlock was back… and all danger from the Moriarty episode done away with… But John wasn’t a user. He truly cared for everyone… all and sundry… Mycroft didn’t want to be one of those but at least a call wouldn’t be amiss. Even Sherlock had texted to ask.

But once A was back on her feet and he could no longer spend his so-called ‘free time’ distracting her, he had no will power left. She was even less inclined than him to rest, which was hypocritical given how she bullied him when the roles were reversed. Her husband, K, on the other hand had perfected his glares and sad disappointed looks and honed them to a weapon (but even he knew enough to deploy them only occasionally).

Plus, they rarely got so much time together so, with K on indefinite leave, Mycroft was making himself scarce. Which left him too much time thinking and not enough will power. Which meant that he was now unlocking the door of 221.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people.  
> Hope you are all fine.
> 
> Oh c'mon its not a cliff hanger. We knew that he was going to go to John. We wanted it remember?
> 
> Ok so confession. I couldn't figure out what they were all doing together in the first place and how she jumped all of them. Sorry. Its patchy but please ignore it.
> 
> I honestly don't know if that 12 year difference in age is true for M and A. I just made it up.
> 
> Yes, its right thats what I wanted to say - Mycroft is grooming her to take his place and she knows she will need an 'Anthea' of her own and already has her sights on three of them.
> 
> Apologies to anyone who shares the names I gave to AGRA. No offence was meant. At all. I just wanted her to come from behind the erstwhile iron curtain. There's more about her [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8092090).
> 
> Yes poor Mycroft caught some of the blast and now his injuries are healing and itching badly and on top of that he had had to bow every time the Japanese did :D sorry but I just have to make him uncomfortable somehow. I truly don't hate him.
> 
> So now that Mycroft has at least taken 1 step and hopefully he won't fumble it do you think John will come around too? Fingers crossed.
> 
> Waiting to hear from you all. And if you haven't seen the [fanart for The Soldier and The Spy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Georgefittleworth/pseuds/Georgefittleworth) please do so now. Because I am loving it.


	37. New scars and old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was prepared for a long chapter. Very long compared to my usual updates. But my usual fears made me break this into two chapters. Even so I bet loads of errors have escaped my editing. Truly though this and the next one should be read in continuity so I'll post that quite soon.
> 
>  
> 
> PS: No idea who those lovely 200 people are who thought to kudos this but Thanks to all of you. Drop in a hi sometime please. It would be lovely to thank you 'in person' per se.
> 
> PPS: I've added a couple of lines to the end of Chapter 35 because the very very nice Juliemagg (thx again JM) pointed out that it was a rather abrupt ending (and then we jumped straight to the AGRA scene). It's still patchy but hopefully closes off that scene.

Sherlock was coming down the stairs. He stopped midway as he spotted his brother letting himself in. So A was better and her husband was taking care of her. Mycroft looked up apprehensively and Sherlock realised that he looked awful. His injuries were healing but making both work and rest difficult. Hm? Ah John. Well then up to John.

Sherlock nodded to Mycroft and left.

Sherlock hadn’t said a word! Mycroft was more than a bit discomfited. He…

He walked up and knocked.

“Did you forget your keys? Oh. Hello, Mycroft. How are you?”

“Quite well. Thank you.”

John stepped away to let Mycroft enter, “Anthea doing ok then? They’ve allowed her out of the bed.”

Great he was transparent to everyone now. “Yes. Thank you. She…” Should he say anything? After all their familial associations were usually exploitable weaknesses. Or perhaps A wouldn’t mind John knowing. “Her husband is with her now. Taking care. In fact he took indefinite leave as soon as they informed him.”

A bittersweet look passed John’s face and for some reason it made Mycroft feel incredibly guilty.

“Good. And you? Are the injuries healing well?”

“Almost healed, Doctor Watson. They were but minor.”

“Hmmm so still hurting and now have begun to itch. Both work and rest is a bitch right now isn’t it? Get them to prescribe something soothing and to keep the surrounding skin from drying and itching.”

One look at those tired eyes and John was yearning to go and wrap his arms around the idiot in his chair and also to shake some sense into him. _Shit! Had he even been eating properly leave alone sleeping?_ He can’t have rested for even a quarter of the prescribed time. And he must have gone overboard with Anthea’s care. _Those two are birds of the same feather._ Plus he must have wanted to leverage AGRAs capture to the maximum. Simply neutralising a threat wouldn’t be enough for a Holmes. _God something to be glad for that he was a mere blunt instrument. These idiotic geniuses were exhausting_.

Damn the good doctor thought Mycroft and tried to change the subject. “The assassin known by the acronym AGRA was the last of the threads and indeed she was something of Moriarty’s right hand. How did you figure that out?”

John laughed, “Ok fine I won’t be a doctor. Now gimme the juicy details of how horribly she is going to die or something.”

“Unfortunately she is a rather smart person and we will need some time to extract relevant information from her before we can dispose of her.”

“I get it. I’m just glad that Anthea is fine and I’m not dead. Thanks for saving my life.”

“I didn’t—”

“If you and Anthea hadn’t—”

“We’ve done it many times—”

“ **For once just take the bloody thanks.”**

“Sorry. You are welcome. Of course.”

Mycroft couldn’t believe how formal they were being. Friendly of course. Just as John had offered the last time but it was so distant and awkward. He hoped it would get easier with time. Of the two evils: that of bedding John minus an attachment and that of simply being friends with him albeit one who chatted with him and shared meals and a few scattered evenings together, he wasn’t sure which would hurt more. If someone could point it out to him he’d simply choose exactly that.

How awfully pedestrian of him wasn’t it.

“Tea?”

“Yes please.”

John wasn’t sure why Mycroft had come. He was sure he came in just as Sherlock was stepping out. So this visit must have been for him. Could have been. May be. Possibly.

John returned with two cups. Sherlock was right in teasing him about his tea drinking. The tray also had sticky buns on them. Mrs Hudson was still feeding these two then.

“The assassin had been working at the A&E for the last few months. She didn’t work much with you per se but she had the excuse to be around and notice if Sherlock ever tried contacting you there.”

“They weren’t taking any chances were they? Fuck. I hadn’t even—”

“She is a professional. She knows how to stay under the radar. And ultimately you did figure it out much earlier than all of us.”

“So she was what?”

“Well she wasn’t Moriarty’s right hand the way Moran was. She was more of his get anything done if asked and paid for the right way. Moran had his loyalty AGRA has none except her professional code. Quite a strategist and has a _reputation._ But is known only by it. No one knew her name. Or rather very few know her work name. Very few. And almost no one knows the full name. A figures she joined Moriarty around five months before you met Sherlock. She had gone solo for quite some time but needed protection following ‘ _an error by a_ _client’_. That’s how she met Moriarty. Certifiably insane but brilliant at her work. Pity she chose that side. She truly could have been one of us.”

“No.”

“Sorry?”

“Can you truly say that she is comparable to any of you? Anthea or Sherlock or you?”

“Circumstances play a big role Doctor Watson. Not everything is down to a person’s choices. I could easily have been on the other side, so could Sherlock, so could Anthea.”

“So could I. Sorry. I shouldn’t be so—”

“Perhaps not you. You don’t realise it do you? You have a much higher moral compass than all of us put together and not one whit of craving for power or the ambition to prove yourself better than the rest.”

John turned red with embarrassment and cleared his throat audibly.

God Sherlock was right it did hurt that he couldn’t get over this man and not just because Mycroft had so callously thrown him out but because John had been in so deep. He had just begun to realise it when Sherlock had ‘returned’.

“You are good at what you do but you couldn’t care less if even your closest people don’t recognise it. Its rare to be so self contained about your achievements.”

“Ta then. Stop embarrassing me and finish your tea. Bet its stone cold now.”

Mycroft smiled and took a sip. It was indeed cooler than he preferred.

“I am sorry for what I said the other day. About you apologising and… and that was mean. I’m sorry.”

“It alright. I am sorry for well first for demanding you have dinner with me, and then implying that you were just being petty. You did have plans.”

“It’s ok.”

“And yes. I’d like that too. I’d like that when we meet henceforth we meet as friends.”

John smiled and nodded and pushed the plate of buns towards him. It was so awkward. Perhaps it would get better with time. God he didn’t want it to get better with time. He wanted all that back. The way it was. Along with a bit more of openness.

That evening had been so easy. Why couldn’t they have that too? Maybe he was asking the universe for too much.

“So uhm, we shouldn’t? I mean no more, umm?”

Was John truly asking? _Why?_ “Do you want to?”

John stilled. _Oh yes. All the time._ “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” _He would die some day possibly sooner than he anticipated. But if that smile was the last thing he saw he’d die satisfied._

Mycroft had made the first move so many times. Back then, the first time and so many times after that. A few evenings back. But this was different. They had promised to carry on as they were and yet everything seemed to have changed.

“Maybe we should go to your place.”

Mycroft looked up surprised.

“Sherlock is going to be out for only a couple of hours at best.”

Mycroft nodded.

“And I bet your meds etc. are all back there. So...”

He dialled Court and soon they were stepping out of 221.

Court smiled as he looked in the mirror, “Good evening, Dr. Watson.”

“Good evening, Court. How are your daughters?”

“Heard about that did you? Quite well thanks. This one’s started to flip on her tummy now.”

“Adventurous times ahead, then.”

Court laughed and pulled up the privacy screen. He had almost missed this. No, he had definitely missed this.

It was a short drive to Mycroft’s place and Court bid them a smiling goodnight.

The place was so familiar and yet… He hadn’t been here since _… No point thinking all that. Not sure why I even asked for this but apparently this body still wants more of Mycroft. And since it was mutual…_ And then Mycroft was kissing him _. Gawwwd how he had missed this... and Mycroft. Yes… yes… yes..._

John was being so careful of him. Or rather his back that it was bloody irritating. Or would have been if it hadn’t been so endearing. He almost wished John would hurt him accidentally.

John's hand trembled as it traced the scar. _Oh God there’s one more. This was definitely a burn._

“Don't.” With a flinch Mycroft shied away involuntarily from the touch. 

“Did I hurt you?”

Mycroft merely shook his head in negative. 

“Can I ki- touch them?” _John had kissed his scars and wounds once, a lifetime ago._  

“Why?” 

“Why?” John frowned in confusion. 

“Why are w… you doing this?”  _If you have to ask then you are an idiot. I doubt you will understand._ “Aren't you angry?”

“Enough to want to see you hurt?” John demanded.

“Please, John.” Mycroft shook his head in a no. “Don’t.”

“Ok. Whatever you say.” _No more no less. I promise. I'll bide by every line that you choose to draw._

“What if I cannot ask? If I don't know how to?” He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t even meant to ask John. He didn’t want them to stop because of his stupid words. But he did want the answers too. So much. Why?

“Will you let me?” _I will… as much as I'm capable. I have my own lines after all. You can say no, can't you?_ “Stop me when you want?” 

“Why are you doing this?” _You have to tell me. John. I need to know._ _Believe me to be an idiot and explain._

The silence stretched too long.

“I'm sorry. I said whatever you asked didn't I. But not... Don’t ask...”  _I’ll give you the use of my body in bed or out but not this._

_This is your line then, John? Don't ask for the words. Fine._

He dragged John's mouth towards him. It tasted just as sweet. He dragged his wet mouth across and reached his neck – suckling and bruising it. He had always been careful never to mark John visibly. But now it wasn’t that he didn’t care. Rather he cared for the exact opposite. He wanted to be reckless and indiscriminate and indiscreet. Within seconds John was responding measure for measure. Each touch each caress each bruise each moan each growl received a reply in kind. This is what they had always done best. 

It was a battle of equals or perhaps it wasn’t a battle at all but a mutual surrender. He couldn’t say which it was.

When John kissed those scars finally, and he did kiss them, there was defiance there; a challenge; a caress and a reproof bundled together. Even hidden beneath layers of lust and want, it was easy for Mycroft to feel that reproof and the challenge. Even so even then in the throes of physical intimacy he wasn’t sure how to acknowledge what the challenge implied and respond to it. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the language of lovers but rather that he was too bloody afraid to speak it.

It was the only thing he refused John and it was perhaps self-preservation or perhaps just cowardice. 

Self preservation. It comes to even the most basic being intrinsically, and the soldier doctor had long teetered on that edge not to know that beyond this lay madness. He understood what he was being given and knew that'd never be enough. And yet how was he to ask for more when every time he tried Mycroft shied away, and it hurt. It hurt more than being thrown out of Mycroft’s life.

If John would give him just one word. Just one. But he has drawn that line. No words. He never thought even intimacy could hurt. But it did. He refused to give this up. It may be selfish but John wanted it too. And it may be the opposite of the long term commitment he had once hoped for but it’s John.

Their bodies knew each other too well to make any missteps. It was their minds and perhaps another organ that needed to coordinate.

This is the first time that their bodies were sated but they weren’t.

Mycroft felt a sharp craving for a cigarette.

John wished he could run across London on a chase.

Neither of them wanted to move.

John wondered if he was the only one too scared to spoil this. Because Mycroft had asked him to stay _that_ night. Perhaps they could make this at least a regular thing. It would have some semblance of commitment (?) relationship (?) us (??). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello lovely beings. Hope wherever you are all is good and well and happy.
> 
> John gets that bittersweet look because he wishes he had the same rights as A's husband to fuss over MH.
> 
> Mycroft is right we all of us can go over to the wrong side. Sometimes it isn't even easy to see which is which and sometimes its just easier. But there are a few who stand on the right side no matter what. Those are few and far between but I think ACD Watson was that sort.
> 
> John is at first trying to keep be all chill and friendly while Mycroft wants it all without spilling his guts. So he keeps trying to push John. Silly man. 
> 
> Yes, yes I think they'd rather jump each others bones than confess that they want more.
> 
> Sherlock is both meddling and not isn't he.   
>  
> 
> PS: In other news I posted a fresh chapter on [I'm gay!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6964300/chapters/28437488) so for those of you who liked my piece of silly one shots do head there after you tell me how OOC this was. But do add a line or two about yourselves too :)
> 
> PPS: The amazing [lavengro](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lavengro/pseuds/lavengro) has finally posted her AU Jooster called [ Mister Robot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12516028/chapters/28497564). Yours truly has been involved in proofing it and picking out the commas and apostrophes. IT'S AWESOME!!!! Very highly recommended.


	38. Ummm so....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sebamher. You'll know why when you read it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this and the previous one were supposed to be one chapter but as usual I'm terrified of the errors that have escaped my editing as a result it had to be broken but all this needs to be in one place.
> 
> Also I've rewritten this scene at least four times. And then cobbled together this thing so gaaah the continuity is now possibly horrendous but it does seem the most likely scenario and the others were just too dramatic (yeah even more than this. you will so believe me when i post it all on DVD extras and thank me that I didn't put all that mush and sickeningly gooey stuff here). 
> 
> Ok ok so (deep breath Bee). Fine I won't fuss any more. Go ahead and read the damned thing.
> 
> PS: I am using **bold** letters for when John is being forceful and CAPS for when he is loud.

They both fell half asleep until Mycroft needed to pee. And then his throat was too dry so he went out to have some water. He put on a robe and grabbed his mobile on the way out of sheer habit. Only one text from A. Two from Rivers. A few mails and alerts. There were four texts from Sherlock. The first two one after another and the next two at intervals of about half and hour each.

_Tell him. -SH_

_He thinks you are only using him. –SH_

_He has proved that it is not me he wants. –SH_

_If you muck this up they will never find your body. –SH_

In a few minutes John followed as Mycroft was rinsing the glass. He refilled the same one and handed it over. He noticed that John was wearing his underwear. John mumbled some sort of thanks.

Mycroft sat down at the breakfast table. It was the middle of night and everything was far too quiet. The texts from Sherlock were scrolling in his mind’s eye. John hadn’t been here since… Since too long. What if Sherlock was wrong? He knew he would regret it either ways. Maybe he can at least test Sherlock’s hypothesis and prove once and for all that John doesn’t want him.

“Why did you leave London? You seemed to have forgiven Sherlock. Surely you could have forged a life together again. Or perhaps you hadn’t forgiven him. Was it that impossible to forgive him that you had to get away from him?”

John wasn’t even sure why they are having this conversation now. After they’d fucked. Twice. And why the heck was Mycroft asking about him and Sherlock instead?

“It wasn't Sherlock. It's me I hadn’t forgiven.”  _Really? Do I mean nothing to you than your brother’s keeper? Were the almost two years of my life with you so barren of any connection that you don't feel even a twinge?_ In a fit of resentment he added, “And you very well know that it wasn't Sherlock again that I had to get away from.”

But Mycroft seemed determined not to hear him. Almost as if there was some _agenda_ that he needed to drive. Some particular thing he wanted John to admit. “I've made some financial provisions for the two of you to get by if you don’t want to return to the A&E work. Don't worry, it's money from his trust. And as his partner you deserve it equally.”

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...”

John was frowning.

"John," Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock…He… He needs you, John.”

“And you don’t,” John stated with a resigned sigh.

It was the worst mixture of hope and anger that John had felt since he was a teen. John had never ever heard Mycroft so incoherent and at a loss of words (outside of their love making, yes dammit, it was love making and he would prove it to the berk). He was somewhat sure now that as usual he had read it all wrong. But his anger was still strong.

“So you what... you simply decided for me? Without asking me. Making me feel like a discard all over again.” Mycroft was shaking his head in denial but John continued to speak.

“Do you know what our months together meant to me? Not just the sex. But the entire time?”

“How could I? You never once said?”

John exploded, “ **You can fucking deduce my bloody whole life down to seconds and not this? And it’s not as if you ever told me**.” He stopped abruptly and breathed noisily. He needed to stay calm. He clenched and unclenched his fist trying to calm. He couldn’t do this in anger. “Ok… ok. So you couldn’t know exactly how much I _needed_ you. Ok but could you not have seen how fucking much I _wanted_ you? Did I make that unclear? Did we not fuck enough?”

Mycroft cringed at the deliberate crudeness but deflected calmly, “You love Sherlock. Always have. And now he is back.”

John was ready to strangle him. Or perhaps he should just smash his own head against a bloody rock. Might prove more useful.

“And so you thought that I would simply throw you over and continue my life with him? Just how much of an arse do you think I am?”

Mycroft tightened his jaw, “No. I thought you’d want to be with him now but I didn’t … I don’t …”

“Mycroft! You are still telling me either that you thought that I’m a self-serving bastard who has been using you for all those months, or that I’m a fucking moron who doesn’t know what he wants.” He knew his voice had once again risen. Bloody buggering fuck. He kept clenching and unclenching his fist, trying to control his volume and temper. This had to be said and said properly.

“When we started, when we first…” he gestured futilely between them, “it was just comfort at first. Just felt like I was still alive and I still mattered. It … I suppose it was selfish. But later…” John pauses trying to find words. He rubs his forehead, “I always thought I couldn’t have you forever. We move in different circles. I get it. I know that I am not… that this isn’t... If I hadn’t shared a flat with Sherlock we would surely have never even met.”

He actually smiled then but to Mycroft it looked resigned and tired, and he thought— _John, I can deduce a lot about you but not this. Truly I cannot. Never could._

“So, I always told myself that, whenever you wanted, I would break it off without a fuss. Perhaps lick my wounds for a bit. But I’d let you go. A Watson cannot hope for a Holmes.” John smiles deprecatingly and it’s just not funny and he isn’t sure which Holmes John is speaking about once more.

“I was ready for that. It was ok to say no more and break it off. But you made it seem as if **_I_** wanted to leave. You also decided that … that I and Sherlock… So, you shoved me over to Sherlock. You cast me either as your brother’s fucking nanny or your bloody bed warmer. There seems to be nothing in between. And you also decided I couldn’t be both – together. Maybe in your bloody mind I am fit only for these roles. So what does it matter.”

The quiet tired tones were worse than the raised voice.

“I am sorry.”

“What exactly are you sorry for, Mycroft? Since I’m being punished tell me what _I_ did wrong? That I loved someone before? Yes, I loved Sherlock. I always will. He brought me back to life. Being with him was like witnessing a supernova, he is dazzling and yes, I love and care for him. But… I need more. I…”

John trailed off, flustered by his emotion. He looked away, breathed in and continued softly, “The sacrifice he made for me weighs heavy on me. It kills me every damned time that I think of it. I look at him and I hurt. It hurts constantly. So much. I would rather have faced the bloody sniper’s bullet. But neither of you ever give me a choice do you? You pull me and push me in any direction you want. I’m a bloody puppet.”

Mycroft swallowed visibly. “I thought I was just a mere substitute.”

John groaned and hid his face in his hands.

Mycroft hurried to assure him. “You called Sherlock a supernova, John, and its true. I can’t dazzle. No one has ever chosen me over him. In their place, I wouldn’t. I have always known it and I have never envied him this. I was seven when he was born and I … well I have always been proud of my attractive and intelligent brother who was loved by everyone at home and who was so demonstrably passionate and he showed everything so clearly even his love towards _me_. I, well… I’ve never been physically attractive. No please just... Sherlock and I are both intelligent, but I wouldn’t know how to _entertain_ you with it like he does. He is passionate and well I’m the _ice-man_. He involves you in every aspect of his work. I cannot. It will never be possible. When he was… going away… I… I told him. But…”

“I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT HIM!” John roared, whipping his head back. “It’s **you** I’m talking to. Its **us** I’m talking about. Give me **your** bloody reasons. What gave **you** the right to decide for **us**?”

“I don’t… I mean… I… John!” Mycroft looked on helplessly and John closed his eyes as if the sight pained him.

John sat down on the other chair. Why was this always so impossible for him?

“Sorry. That wasn’t on. It seems there is so much I should apologise for too." He opened his eyes but kept his head bent.

"When Sherlock…umm when he… went away… I was angry and I vented it out on you. I am sorry for that. You were grieving yourself. It wasn’t fair. I know now and I knew then that you would always protect Sherlock and yet I blamed you. I am so sorry. And when you brought me into the war room, you gave me a _cause_. I felt useful. And for a brief period I had a friend once more. And then we… We were _together_.” The hushed wonder in his voice as he says that word had Mycroft swaying towards him. “I know I pushed that first evening and I’m sorry if that wasn’t what you wanted.” _No John you didn’t. I wanted every bit of it._ “I shouldn’t have pushed you. But, you came back and I thought you… maybe…” He shrugged helplessly. “I was numb for so long and so afraid to feel anything again. But it was ok with you...”

John was staring at the floor seemingly lost in his thoughts. “You gave me what I wanted. And allowed that I be myself in return. It felt good. It felt right. I thought that you let me in a bit.” John laughed at that thought and looked away shaking his head, and then looked back, “What I felt with you was far more fulfilling and tenacious. After a fucking long time I felt _needed_.” His smile was so dry that Mycroft hated it.

“Pathetic really, isn’t it?” John looked away again, biting his lower lip, rubbing his palms on the front of his thighs, as he sorted through words and emotions. “You see I felt needed by _you_. Not just physically but also… perhaps…” He gave a self-deprecating smile and rubbed his forehead again as he continued. “I haven’t always had that. And I… It was…” He put a fist to his lips clearing his throat. “It made me happy. Strangely, I felt your equal.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I hadn’t ever… You see it is a first for me. We have a balance. You and I. Had. We had. I felt equal to you.” He smiled ruefully. “And… and needed.” He repeated.

Mycroft looked stunned. They sat in silence.

Then, for the first time in forever, John saw Mycroft steeling himself before he spoke. John realised that this was Mycroft being vulnerable. He was letting go of his habitual masks and was letting John see him and his emotions. These visible signs had been deliberately left for John. The man seemed to gather up all his courage. Then he took a deep breath, “I have wanted you for a very long time, John. I told you before that I have never envied Sherlock. But I confess, that first day in the warehouse I resented Sherlock for having garnered your loyalty without lifting a finger. The admiration and loyalty of a man like you… and even attraction. I couldn’t have the last but I envied him the other two.”

John huffed abashedly and perhaps a bit unbelievingly and Mycroft let a wistful smile slip through reflecting his first infatuation with the army doctor. “That is what makes you more attractive Three Continents Watson, your modesty in your own stellar qualities. You see – opposites attract.”

John huffed again and shook his head in exasperation but now he was smiling. Mycroft let his own smile stay as he continued, “True that our paths may not have crossed but for your meeting in the park with Dr. Stamford, but once they did cross, there was no way that I did not take note of you.”

Here he paused, seemingly having covered one of the points in his surely bulleted mental list. “Yes, you overwhelmed me that first evening after DI Lestrade was re-instated. And it is true that my overture had been meant solely as comfort. And here I shall answer those questions you asked of me. No, John. It was not easy for me, to see my brother’s reputation being destroyed by a criminal, blackmailed into letting go of his own life here in London. Forced into a dangerous exile. I was afraid for him, but, unlike you I knew he was alive. But I deserved it for betraying those I cared for. I had the evidence of my betrayal in two shapes – a brother who would perhaps not return home alive or unscathed. And his dearest friend, alive but who would nevertheless have chosen death over such existence. And who would definitely never forgive my part in the deception. Don’t look like that John, you know you would have physically assaulted me after learning of it had we not had a change in our relationship. You would have done the same to Sherlock if he had not returned on a stretcher. You were hardly able to speak properly to Dr Hooper even though your rational part told you to forgive her. You know I’m right. So, no, it wasn’t easy. If it helps then know that A tells me that I was impossible during that period.” He took another pause then.

“I knew I was betraying you John but I had wanted you for a very long time and if a few moments were all I could have then by god I would take them.” His face became the usual mask and John realised that it was unconsciously done— sheer force of habit.

“I left the following morning telling myself that it had been a one-off. Yet in less than 24 hours I was back. You tell me that you felt needed, John, and indeed you were. Both wanted and needed. And just as importantly, you made me feel the same. You allowed me to care for you, and not just sexually. If I got food or shopped or protected, you never resented it. You filled a void in me too.”

Mycroft was looking into the distance as he said, “Our first few encounters were heady for me almost intoxicating, and left me undeniably riddled with guilt later. Each time I planned to be with you, I would do my utmost to forget that I had not been your first choice, forget that I was lying to you, forget that if I would but open Sherlock’s eyes to your affection he may reciprocate and together you could… I told myself that Sherlock had never loved you, and that I could perhaps give you a measure of my affection for however long you permitted. Yes, John even I assumed that what we had was temporary. You could always meet someone far more interesting and warmer than me or when Sherlock returned you would…” John let out a choked sound. “Not callously John. Never. But, … Please. I’m not excusing my behaviour simply…”

He changed tack then, “Do you recall the first time I asked you to this flat here? I had planned an elaborate seduction.”

“I guessed as much,” smirked John.

“Well, yes, but I had not planned on disclosing the entire contents of my pantry and refrigerator to you, or to make you cook and clean in my instead,” Mycroft responded drily making John smile wider.

“The fridge was rather well stocked, and you have very posh cleaning supplies” John grinned.

“Hardly a surprise since I changed the menu thrice, each time setting A to order all ingredients at once,” informed Mycroft with a quirk of his lips. “I wanted you to see me as a potential partner, someone worthy of some commitment, who would take care of you as much as possible.” He shook his head in wry amusement. “Well we both know how well I executed my plans.”

“I liked it.”

“Only you would.” Mycroft smiled. “I had spent that day anxious for Sherlock’s well being. He had fallen off the radar so to speak.”

“Oh!” John isn’t sure how to respond. That part of him is still a bit raw. “You should have cancelled.”

“No, John. That is not the point of this recollection. I had entirely forgotten about our dinner plans. I may or may not have told A to cancel it. Truthfully, I don’t recall either ways. But once we had a bit of intelligence regarding his relative safety and whereabouts, she pushed me out. It was only then that I realised how utterly I had failed. I know you are thinking that I was being a rather nice elder brother et cetera et cetera.”

John raised an eyebrow in silent query.

“I was torn. Leaving the office seemed very much like abandoning Sherlock. Though my rationality convinced me that I was of no use there. But I felt worn out too. I just… I came home with meagre hope that you had not abandoned it, but instead, I found myself welcomed with a warm home cooked meal and a smile, a quiet comforting dinner and not a single word of complaint. Not even a frown. And once again my guilt deserted me, my concern for my brother while not relegated second easily moved to accommodate a measure of contentment. I wondered how I could have that forever.”

“And that is when your mood changed.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply, “You— ”

“Of course I knew, you idiot. One minute it was all warmth and quiet content, tired but comfortable. Next you were kissing me as if challenging me.”

“I apol— ”

“Spare me and move on.” John said wryly. “So what happened then, Mycroft? Maybe for a very long time I was numb. But that was just… look I’m not… but later I thought I made it clear. I didn’t treat this as temporary.”

Mycroft was worrying his lower lip his eyes boring into John’s face with desperation and then he made a visible effort as he said quietly, “I did make overtures. Like one morning I wanted us to shower together and—”

“Fuck! You touched me and I stepped out. Shit. You wanted more and instead I thought you were just being perfunctory. Fuck!”

“No John I wasn’t. I was hoping…”

“I get it now. Shit. I am so so sorry. So Sorry. What else then? God! I thought I was being blatantly transparent.”

“But you never even said my name.”

John startled.

In a deliberate tone that struggled to keep the tone polite, emotionally neutral and non-demanding, which told John that this was perhaps the most important thing he would ever hear, Mycroft explained, “When we were _together_ and we had… mmmade… when we had intercourse, you never said my name. Not even once.”

John’s face crumpled at that. Bloody buggering hell.

Had he really been so bad as that? All his anger, this resentment, this sense of abandonment that he had been nursing for the last so many months. Christ! Mycroft had screamed his name so many times in ecstasy or rapture or a happy sigh. And he had the balls to accuse him… All this time he had felt justified and entitled… he had… He shut his eyes tight. Fuck!

“God! I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I'm such a twat. Oh God! Are you sure? Of course you are. How can you ever… I’m really sorry, Mycroft. Lord! I’m such a dick. Accusing you when I… Fuck, fuck fuck.” John opened his eyes, “No wonder... How would you? I…”

“It’s ok, John.”

“No no clearly it’s not ok other wise we wouldn’t be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how are my lovely beings?
> 
> Seb, my dear, they did 'communicate' and theres a bit more but this is the bulk of it. At least now its all out there. Only you had any faith that they would. And thats why this chapter is truly for you :)
> 
> Yeah I wanted to keep it pretty balanced and also for each to accept that he made some mistakes. But I don't see Mycroft apologising for taking what he wanted, He just didn't want John hurt in that process. He has long treaded the paths of dubious morality to be so thin skinned. 
> 
> Also BBC John is so closed off and angry all the time that I doubt he would be completely open either. Plus his admiration for Sherlock is so visible in the series precisely because there are no expectations. I bet if it became a 'relationship' he'd try and prevent himself from giving it all away and thus spoil it all a bit at first.
> 
> Sherlock is both meddling and not isn't he. 
> 
> Mycroft is one of those idiots who will not easily realise that its better to be wrong than sad. So he will try and hear only bits that justify what he thinks is right. But if one is stubborn enough like a certain someone we know then it can happen :)
> 
> My head canon is that Mycroft is rather proud of Sherlock and loves to show him off. Which is why he blundered with Moriarty. 
> 
> Everyone has a blind spot and when we are emotionally invested we either read too much or too little into things. Both do ample damage as in the case of these idiots.
> 
> And that is all I have to say about that. -Forrest Gump
> 
> Drop a note to tell me how this one went please. Thanks.
> 
> PS: Did I already mention that the wonderfully superb [lavengro](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lavengro/pseuds/lavengro) (yes yes after the character from George H Borrow's book cos this writer is so well read that they are possibly descended from the family Jeeves I swear) has finally posted their AU Jooster called [ Mister Robot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12516028/chapters/28497564)? Its bally spiffing and dashed good fun. Very highly recommended and not least because me did a bit of proofing there. Just saying ;-)


	39. Now What?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this scene continues from the last chapter :)
> 
> PS: Did you all notice my new icon :D

They sat in silence.

Each with his regrets.

“Right then, I need some tea. Because I’m definitely not going to be sleeping.” John offered his panacea eventually.

“Try some warm milk instead.”

“Sorry?”

“For sleeping?”

“Yes, of course. Do you want some too?”

“No, you are right. Let’s just have some tea and keep awake some more.”

John smiled at that and Mycroft wasn’t sure what he did right but knew without a doubt that he would repeat it every day if allowed. They worked in silence and Mycroft pulled out a cup and saucer along with a mug that has been lying tauntingly unused in the shelf for months now. The silence in the kitchen was somewhat soothing now. Both of them a bit lost in thoughts and somewhat enjoying the quiet company.

They finished their tea and scrubbed, rinsed and dried everything just to prolong it all. Neither of them even pretending any more and yet both of them didn't know what further to say. Were there too many resentments and false starts in their pasts to make anything of it now?

John wasn’t sure what more he could say. Should it be him or should it be Mycroft? Was there anything salvageable in their time together or was it lost to hurts real and imagined? Perhaps they had already wasted their opportunities. He was now at least clear about how he felt. But Mycroft said he had wanted him and last night wasn’t…

Mycroft had no illusions about being a good long term partner to anyone. And he had used John abominably. But... Was this a go-ahead or a closure? Perhaps a continuation of John’s earlier idea of friends with occasional or regular ‘benefits’. If John truly... He didn't deserve John's affection. A good man wouldn't encourage this. And yet John would be hurt if... A better man would encourage John to find someone worthy. But John seemed to... The mere thought of being shorn away from John's side ever again caused unbearable pain. Mycroft restlessly got up to fill another glass of water. Just to have something to do.

“Will you sit down please. Just give me a moment, ok. Just...”

Mycroft sat down reluctantly and waited.

“Do you truly care for me?”

“…” _Why would you ask me that John? Haven’t I bared myself enough? What more can I say?_

“Fine. Let me go first then. I need to tell you this now ok. 'Cos I’m rubbish at this stuff and possibly will be a berk all the time. But just let me say it ok. Actually wait for a minute.” John went hurriedly to the bedroom and retrieved his phone. He sat down again scarcely looking at Mycroft.

“I wrote this some time back. When…” He scrolled through his phone till he found something, which obviously he was a bit unsure of and he babbled a bit. “It’s a bit raw. I didn’t write it for anyone else to… Like a diary I suppose… It’s a little over… It’s not...” But then the soldier cleared his throat and squared his shoulders to read it aloud.

“Twenty six weeks back, I spent the night in bed with a man who was way out of my league. Posh as royalty. Groomed and tailored as even some of my dates aren’t. He was not ice. Not with me. He hasn’t been ice with me in a very long time. He is passionate. For his country, for his brother, his people and in bed. Just recalling his passion can make me hard and hot. Every time I am with him I have to make the extremely difficult decision all over again of fucking him in those posh clothes or peeling them away to gawk at him. If he is ice then he proves that ice can burn. But that’s not all. He listens to my stories with endless patience. He can’t speak about his work but has never once resented my work or my immersion in it. He is a bit of a show-off but not indiscreet. You must prove your worth before he chooses to dazzle you. But once he accepts your worth he warms you from within.” John kept flicking his eyes at Mycroft to gauge his reaction.

“And when we are in the bed…” John broke off suddenly and looked up. He put down his hand on his lap and licked his lip nervously. Then he began again, now obviously speaking extempore, “God! We didn’t just fuck that night? We... I made love.” He declared. “I've been making love to him for a long time now. I am no good at saying things so I tell him in bed instead. I touch him to tell him that I…” John firmly looked into Mycroft’s eyes and said, “I love him.” John feels like a weight has lifted as he says it.

Mycroft made a choked sound and John took his hand in one of his own and continued, “He never says anything either. And mostly I am fine with that, because his touch tells me things too. It says that he sees _me_. Its as if I am important to him. As if I was attractive enough… fuck, that I was bloody hot.” John smiled bashfully. It's coming easier to him now.

“He’s the most powerful man that I know, but in bed we are equals. It is... heady? Maybe I care for him far more than he does for me. But still… More than I had ever hoped to ever have. There’s at least mutual attraction and respect, you see.” John bit his lip and looked intently at him, “Shit. To think I accused you of keeping yourself shut away from me. You spoke more eloquently when we … when we were making love than I ever did.”

“And loudly too,” said Mycroft wryly and John laughed, the tension somewhat eased.

John looked down shyly and locked his phone and put it on the table. And waited. Hoping Mycroft would say something. But the silence settled again.

Was that the answer? Mycroft hadn't pulled away his hand but...

“So...Then… Can you ever forgive me? Please? Even if we… Even if… just try and... I do like you and I'm sorry I ever hurt you. I wish that I had said something earlier, when we still had a chance.”

Mycroft stayed silent. If John had been prone to drama he would have said he looked shocked. Which for a self-professed ice-man was saying something. Now if he would just give some sign. 

Dammit! John Watson would not give up on this so easily. He just couldn't. “Mycroft?... You told me once that lying was the one part of your job that you did not bring into your personal life. Could you tell me the truth, please? Just this once? I don’t... for me."

Mycroft was staring at the floor. He wasn't sure if it could all be this easy. Could ~~he~~ they just... if only he had a fraction of Watsonian courage. Was he the one complicating it all? 

"Mycroft?"

“How can you care for me when I have only brought you pain?... Everyone likes you. You deserve so much more. Someone much better."

“Did you not hear a word I just said?"

“I... I did, John. But... how? Sex is one thing and I agree with all that you said. We are rather compatible. But it is all superficial. Fool's gold. Not worth much in long term. For that... you need to know how to care. As you do. You know how to care. But I am rotten when it comes to caring. You are so warm and caring but I... Look what I did to Sherlock. Look how I used you!"

“I'm not saying it's easy or ok and yes I am hurt. Still...”, John shrugged as if to say what can you do.

Mycroft looked up his eyes darting around as if figuring out something, “And I am infinitely grateful. I don't understand how... but... Thank you.”

“Just that... staying away from you is far more difficult. Not caring is not even an option. Not now.” John held his breath.

“Not an option? You mean...?" The astonishment in Mycroft's eyes was both amusing and exasperating. "You are ready to forgive me? Can _you_ forgive me? For how terribly I behaved towards you? For making this decision unilaterally?”

John laughed easily, “I will always be upset with you when you do that, you know…”

“Always?” There was a hopeful gleam in Mycroft’s eyes.

“Always.” John confirmed returning the hope. “But in this instance, seeing that we were both bloody idiots too scared to...” He quirked his lips in that same self-deprecating smile that always left Mycroft helpless against the man.

"And I'm sorry I couldn't tell you about Sherlock. You were so... and I didn't... Sorry."

John nodded tightly.

With infinite care, as if the moment were a fragile reliquary, Mycroft Holmes got down on his knees in front of the man he had loved for so long and with such little hope. 

With great delicacy, Mycroft took both his hands in his own and cleared his throat. He closed his eyes and swallowed, then he opened them and looked into John's eyes solemnly. 

John’s eyes were wide and warily expectant as he looked down into his _lover’s_  eagerly hopeful face.

“I love you, John.”

John’s eyes widened impossibly now and he heard the words embellished with a quaver in Mycroft's voice.

“John, can we start again please?” And perhaps there was a sheen over those smoky blue eyes too.

Mycroft's voice was thick with emotion, “We can discuss and decide on each tomorrow together. I promise. You can give me a good scolding whenever I forget to or make me beg as an apology. Because I am a ridiculous man and I will forget. But please please don't leave me alone again. I won't survive it a second time. I am willing to learn to be a better partner. I promise. I want us to be together, John, and I want to try. Because I love you. Stay?”

John almost slid down the chair half in Mycroft’s lap as crushed Mycroft to himself. He was trembling as he held him and chanted  _yes, yes, yes_ and _please_ , and _thank god_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES THERE WILL BE AN EPILOGUE
> 
> I made John read it out cos I do believe he is rather romantic in his writing and possibly write a 'dear diary' sort of thing. Both in ACD and BBC SH accuses him of romanticising in his writing. This was I got him to say nice things without being OOC (or so I think).
> 
> And yes, he had to give a lil before Mycroft fessed up but c'mon... Its MH. He did say it 
> 
> Ta da  
> The end!  
> Therre will be one smutty scene because all of this is too somber for me. But then thats it :)
> 
> I don't want this to sound like an Oscar speech but I have a few thanks please.  
> Just bear with me for a bit more.
> 
> I will put up all those deleted scenes aka alternate endings after this. But now I must claim this monster finished.  
> Phew almost two years!
> 
> It has been a huge learning for me. Since the last two years I changed as well many of my initial premises for the fic and their relationship, their issues, my perceptions of them, how to resolve, what I wanted resolved, etc all changed. Which complicated matters a lot. Painful. But when I read my initial notes I get to smile about it now.
> 
> Also i learnt about collaborating. I initially requested the fabulous [Gem_gem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem) to write the smut and edit parts of Mycroft's dialogue cos I was pants at that. She helped quite a lot during that initial phase. The first few smutty scenes are in large parts hers. She also asked me a lot of questions on the plot and characters and that may have stumped me but helped clarify my own muddled thoughts.  
> So a huge thank you once again to her. Her individual works are outstandingly brilliant and I do hope she continues to have her readership going up each day. May the muse always smile upon you Gem :)
> 
> But most of all I realised that I do care what others think of my writing!  
> Everytime I got a kudos or a comment.  
> So you all really helped.  
> There are dozens of you who I'd like to give a hug to. Especially the three who asked me and prodded me all along Sebamher (i'll miss your prompt comments), lavengro (have you had enough of my whining yet), n_a (i hope this wasn't half as bad as the usual Johncrofts we both hate). You are all stars :)
> 
> I'm sorry I took a break in writing this. But I think (hope?) it did make the second half better (?). Thanks for sticking by me in spite of it.
> 
> And Mr. Bee who is possibly never going to read this but joked that the title was apt since I ranted that my plot kept running in all directions and I couldn't put it all together. (He did bear with many many rants and does excellent peppermint tea as a cure)
> 
> So then hopefully you guys will be as happy that this has ended the way it has as I am.
> 
> I'm gonna take a mental break before plotting something so I don't overdo all these tropes. meantime I am betaing (is that the correct form) for a fresh Jooster by the superb [lavengro](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lavengro/pseuds/lavengro). It's an AU and I'm super thrilled. Keep an eye out for that one if you ship this two. (La you must publish now or you make a liar out of me ;-D)
> 
> But until the next lengthy one I will keep adding bits and bobs to all these existing things. I promise. Both here and the Soldier and the Spy and all those silly shorts I keep writing.
> 
> Stay happy all my lovely people. I do love you all.
> 
> Good morning, and in case I don't see ya, Good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight. - Truman Burbank


	40. And they sexily snarked happily ever after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The directive in the original plot said: Six-months on a ‘reflectory’ and smutty scene for self-gratification to close this!
> 
> I regret to say that I couldn't follow that. So all you now have is fluffy smut. 
> 
> Yup I gave up on the whole reflectory bit which I know is what you all were dying to read. ;-)
> 
> On that note my lovely lovely people. See ya hopefully another time and place with another fic (which hasn't even been thought of yet) and I hope some of you enjoy the DVD extras I've posting as a separate work in the series.
> 
> Love you allllll

Sweat beaded on John’s upper lip and one drop pearled bigger, gaining girth till it was plump enough to start rolling down on the side. For a time it almost followed the line of that mouth open in ecstasy, and then gravity dictated a straighter path which it took reluctantly before joining another pearl on it’s way, gaining mass and greater urgency as it tumbled down the side of the cheek altogether and dropped off the jaw to the sheets beneath. His short hair was spiked wet and his fingers around that lovely head bobbing below told him a similar story.

Their movements weren’t urgent but they were firm and heated. Mycroft released him and picked one of John’s hands and kissed the delicate skin of the wrist. Then he licked all the way to the fingers and bit him on the tip drawing a sudden inhale. He rolled the tip of his tongue around the digits, wetting them thoroughly and then sucked it hard into his mouth in one straight pull causing John to arch off with a soft groan.

“Mycroft, can you... I love your mouth but … inside you please.”

Mycroft climbed up and melded their mouths together. “Didn’t you promise me all the time I want, my love?” he asked playfully. As much as John loved this side of his lover, and he would easily admit now that the endearment had melted him, he knew that Mycroft could be horribly persistent in arousing him beyond reason and loved seeing him completely helpless against his machinations in bed.

“Are you saying you do not want any time with my cock in you then?”

A theatrical sigh was the answer. “Must I choose oh lord and master?”

They changed their positions hardly disentangling themselves from the other. Each movement was languid and drawn out, a caress in itself.

“Lord and master! That’s rich coming from you bossy boots.”

Mycroft huffed in laughter, “I prefer officious.” He nipped John on the shoulder.

“You would, you overbearing domineering man.”

“Masterful,” Mycroft corrected with a tweak to his nipple. 

“High-handed... Despotic... Imperious... Autocratic... High-and-mighty.” Each word was punctuated by a kiss here a nip there.

Mycroft was on his back finally and they had almost never stopped kissing. Mycroft enjoyed the careful ministrations as John prepared his body to receive his own. Those rough and strong fingers were so sure so definite in their movements. Was there anything he could fault in his good doctor? Perhaps his stubbornness. Or his insistence on going toe-to-toe on everything. The ‘debate’ on the grocery bills had lasted three weeks and was still an occasional issue. And his insistence on healthy eating, sleeping/resting definitely itself bordered on autocratic or erm nagging (?).

“I thought we’d resolved not to plan any wars in bed, sweetie.” John snarked bringing him back and Mycroft gave his flank a loud smack in retaliation.

“Oi! That way is it?” John ran his fingers lightly along Mycroft’s sides.

“John! NO.” Mycroft was helpless against the tickling. He couldn’t move much with John’s fingers still in him. “I hate you.” He scowled.

John grinned, “Sorry. I wont repeat it for the next hour. I promise.” Mycroft pinched the much suffering flank, “Ouch. Ok. Ok. Ready?” John steadied himself as Mycroft combed away his hair from his forehead.

Mycroft relaxed himself with deliberate attention as John eased into his body with infinite care. John looked so ‘himself’ at that moment. Every single time they did this. John was careful and strong and caring and steady.

Once fully in, John relaxed himself for a few moments collecting his wits, which had scattered with each millimetre of the tight and hot grasp of Mycroft’s body. He loved this moment in between. It felt comforting and it was thrilling, it had already happened and it was the door of possibilities, it felt erotic and it felt steadying, it felt like a connection and it felt like it would splinter them, he held Mycroft in his palm and he felt cherished. He wished he could draw it out forever. Well, he would always try to. They had the time and energy tonight. So he tried to lift himself up to let Mycroft know. But in that fumbling he ended up nudging that small bundle of nerves that made Mycroft groan helplessly and buck against him. And without thinking, indeed like a Pavlovian response, his body responded to his lover’s groan by repeating it’s motion to coax the same reaction again.

Mycroft let out another whimper. His limbs were now rigid with strain. His reddened face a severe mask of painful ecstasy, his fingers clutching John’s with sudden tension and the tendons in his neck taut.

Damn that wasn’t in his plan. They didn’t need that tonight.

Mycroft was tense with heightened pleasure. John could feel it in each sinew. He slowly dragged his hand down one long slim leg, all the way to the shin and softly urged his lover to bend his leg closer. Mycroft dragged it up with an effort and John coaxed it up till he could grasp the foot. The toes were curled in painfully. John drew lazy circles with his tongue on the sharp bone at Mycroft’s clavicle as his finger mimicked the act over and over Mycroft’s toes, gentle, calming, loving, rubbing a finger beneath firmly, dipping between, now his lips parting to allow his mouth a taste, his palm engulfing the slowly relaxing digits. He drew his hand up gently and caressed the instep and the sole. Mycroft had beautiful arches. A staggered shuddering breath escaped Mycroft’s mouth followed by a soft sob as John encircled his ankle.

John’s mouth continued giving Mycroft every gentle caress that a human mouth was capable of. Pressing his lips over fevered skin, rubbing them back and forth, nibbling and plucking gently, laving and prodding with his tongue, gentle flicks from the tip or the complete flat dragging along as far as possible, opening his mouth and breathing warm and damp over well loved skin. His hand slowly dragged up that sharp shin and then rounded the surprisingly plump calf to give it a few soft kneads and then those soothing firm strokes made their way down all the way back to the ankle.

Mycroft whimpered his name and John rubbed his cheek on Mycroft’s chest in understanding. _Yes, yes my love. This is us. This is forever. This is how it should be. How it will be. Forever. As long as life permits._ His hand glided back up and rested on the knee. The muscles were no longer quivering and the lovely warm skin over the joint was a smooth reminder of that. John raised himself on his other hand to look at Mycroft. “Alright love?”

Mycroft opened his eyes and smiled beatifically. He raised his hand to cradle John’s face and curled up to kiss him. “Thank you.” He laid down again.

“You are so beautiful.”

Mycroft huffed, “Spoken like a man in love.”

“Recognise one do you?”

“I see it in the mirror everyday, John.”

John’s smile couldn’t have been wider as he now dove down for a kiss and ended up slipping out of Mycroft in the process. They giggled against each other through the kiss. John unconsciously kneaded Mycroft’s thigh with one hand and stroked his temple with the thumb of the other. As if his hand couldn’t stay away even when it was supposed to be holding him up. Finally Mycroft gave an uncomfortable wriggle and John realised his finger tips had tickled the back of his thigh. “Sorry.”

Mycroft pressed his hand back on his thigh firmly and pulled him down by his neck to continue with the kiss and the caress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you new around here:  
> Some other works in similar vein as this chapter can be found among the ficlets within the [ Together](http://archiveofourown.org/series/335350) series.
> 
> Be warned though it's a mishmash with fluffy times between them (Sexy, Laugh, Knees, Smile, etc) all mixed up with ficlets from what has almost become a "mini series" with a completely different thread of how they got together (Indelible patterns, The Date, What's the Protocol, Rest Please.).
> 
> Q to self- Should those be put in a separate series so it's less confusing to readers?


End file.
